THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


€6e  ^dlt0Mtttxt0  ^mt0 


SECTION  III 
THE   ENGLISH   DRAMA 

FROM    ITS    BEGINNING    TO    THE    PRESENT    DAY 


GENERAL    EDITOR 

GEORGE  PIERCE  BAKER 

FKOFBSSOR    OF    ENGLISH    IN 
HARTAan    UNIVERSITY 


GEORGE  CHAPMAN 
From  the  frontispiece  of  T/ie  fVhole  fVorks  of  Homer,  1616 


ALL   FOOLES 


AND 


THE^e^&i:Ti@0^ysr  USHER 


By  GEORGE  CHAPI 

EDITED  BY 


THOMAS  MARC  PARROTT,  Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR   OF  ENGLISH   AT   PRINCETON   UNIVERSITY 


BOSTON,  U.S.A.,  AND  LONDON 

D.  C.   HEATH  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 

•1907 


p^ 


COFl'RIGHT,    1907,    BY    D.    C.    HEATH    &   CO. 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


pxtiatovv  Bott 


In  this  volume  I  have  attempted  to  present  the  student 
of  Elizabethan  drama  with  a  new  and  carefully  edited 
text  of  two  of  Chapman's  best  comedies.  I  have  in  each 
case  printed  from  transcripts  made  of  copies  in  the  Library 
of  Edinburgh  University  and  in  the  Bodleian,  and  I 
would  offer  my  thanks  in  passing  for  the  unfailing  kind- 
ness and  courtesy  which  attended  my  work  in  both  places. 

The  transcripts  in  the  first  place  and  the  proof  after- 
wards have  been  carefully  collated  with  the  original 
copies.  The  text  of  both  the  plays  in  this  volume  has 
also  been  corrected  in  proof  by  copies  of  the  Quartos  in 
the  Boston  Public  Library.  For  this  final  collation  I  am 
indebted  to  the  General  Editor  of  this  Series.  It  is  my  hope 
that  the  text  here  presented  is  as  nearly  accurate  as  it  can 
be  made. 

In  the  brief  Biography  I  have  attempted  to  restate  the 
few  kno\vn  facts  of  Chapman's  life  in  such  a  way  as  to 
give  what  seems  to  me  a  more  connected  view  of  his 
work  than  is  usually  afforded.  In  the  Introduction  I  have 
tried  to  trace  the  development  of  Chapman's  art  as  a  comic 
dramatist,  and  to  fix  his  conception  of  comedy  as  com- 
pared with  that  of  contemporary  writers.  The  Notes 
are  intended  to  show  Chapman's  occasional  borrowings 
from  older  works,  to  explain  obscure  allusions,  and  when 
necessary  to  elucidate  involved  passages  by  the  method  of 
paraphrase.  The  interpretation  of  single  words  has  been 
entrusted  to  the  Glossary. 

In  the  preparation  of  this  edition  I  have  received  as- 
sistance from  many  friends.  I  wish  to  express  in  partic- 
ular my  thanks  to   Mr.  C.  W.  Kennedy,  of  Princeton, 


vi  prefatory  il^ote 

who  first  called  my  attention  to  the  dependence  of  All 
Fools  upon  the  Adelphi  of  Terence  ;  to  Dr.  Henry  Brad- 
ley for  repeated  assistance  in  the  interpretation  and  emen- 
dation of  the  text  ;  to  Dr.  Furnivall,  Mr.  P.  A.  Daniel, 
and  Mr.  T.  J.  Wise  for  valuable  suggestions  in  regard 
to  the  plays  in  general  and  the  question  of  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  dedication  of  All  Fools  in  particular;  and  to 
Professor  E.  K.  Rand  for  aid  in  tracing  two  of  Chap- 
man' s  Latin  passages.  Mr.  V.  L.  Collins,  of  the  Prince- 
ton University  Library,  enabled  me  to  run  down  a 
specially  puzzling  allusion.  Finally,  my  thanks  are  due 
to  Mr.  W.  H.  demons,  of  Princeton,  for  his  careful 
reading  of  the  proof-sheets,  and  to  the  General  Editor 
of  this  Series  for  much  salutary  criticism  as  the  book  was 
passing  through  the  press. 

T.   M.   P. 


isioimptiv 


The  little  that  we  know  of  Chapman's  life  is  derived  mainly 
from  Anthony  a  Wood.  (^Athenae  Oxonienses,  1691.)  The  inscrip- 
tion '  on  his  portrait  prefixed  to  Tie  fVhole  Works  of  Homer,  16 16, 
points  to  1559  as  the  year  of  his  birth.  In  his  poem  Euthymiae 
Raptus  Chapman  himself  mentions  Hitchin  in  Hertfordshire  as  his 
native  place. 

About  1574,  according  to  Wood,  Chapman,  "being  well 
grounded  in  school-learning,  was  sent  to  the  University,  but  whether 
first  to  this  of  Oxon.  or  that  of  Cambridge  is  to  me  unknown.  Sure 
I  am  that  he  spent  some  time  in  Oxon,^  where  he  was  observed 
to  be  most  excellent  in  the  Latin  and  Greek  tongues,  but  not  in  logic 
or  philosophy,  and  therefore  I  presume  that  that  was  the  reason 
why  he  took  no  degree  here." 

From  1574  to  1594  we  know  nothing  whatever  of  Chapman's 
life.  Acheson '  believes  him  to  have  been  a  schoolmaster  at 
Hitchin,  but  this  assumption  rests  mainly  upon  the  identification  of 
Chapman  with  Holofernes  in  Lo've' s  Labour  'sLost,  an  identification 
which  is  not  likely  to  commend  itself  to  most  students  of  Chapman. 
It  has  also  been  assumed  that  the  poet  spent  some  part  of  this  time 
upon  the  Continent.  The  evidence  drawn  for  this  opinion  from 
Alphonsus,  Emperor  of  Germany,  may  be  thrown  aside,  for  it  is 
most  unlikely  that  Chapman  had  anything  to  do  with  the  com- 
position of  that  play.*  On  the  other  hand,  in  the  Second  Hymn 
of  Chapman's  Shadoiu  of  Night,  1594,  there  is  a  vivid  description 

1  Georgius  Chapmanus,  Homeri  Metaphrastes.    ^ta  :  lvii.  mdcxvi. 

2  Warton,  History  of  English  Poctrj,  iv,  }2I,  states  that  he  spent  two 
years  at  Trinity  College,  Oxford. 

}   Shakespeare  and  the  Rival  Poet,  Arthur  Acheson.    John  Lane,  190}. 

4  For  a  discussion  of  the  authorship  of  this  play  see  Ward,  English 
Dramatic  Literature, II, 41J  seq.,  Fleay,  Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama, 
II,  156  seq.,  and  Robertson,  Did  Shakespeare  write  Titus  Andronicus? 
123  seq.  There  is  no  reason,  except  a  publisher's  statement  twenty  years 
after  the  poet's  death,  for  ascribing  this  play  to  Chapman. 


of  a  skirmish  between  English  and  Spanish  troops  near  Nimeguen  in 
Holland.  In  this  passage  Chapman,  in  speaking  of  the  English  sol- 
diers, uses  the  pronoun  "  we,"  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  them,  and 
there  is,  after  all,  no  reason  why  Chapman,  like  Ben  Jonson,  should 
not  have  seen  service  in  the  Low  Countries. 

In  1594  we  find  Chapman  in  London  engaged  in  "  virtuous  and 
elaborate  studies,"  "  composing  poetry,  and  apparently  vieing  with 
Shakespeare  for  the  patronage  of  the  liberal  and  art-loving  South- 
ampton. The  Shadoiv  of  Night  appeared  in  1594;  in  1595  0-viJ's 
Banquet  of  Sense  (not  a  translation  from  Ovid,  as  a  German  writer  ^ 
has  stated,  but  an  original  poem),  A  Coronet  for  his  Mistrssse  Phil- 
osophie,  and  The  Amorous  Zodiacke.^ 

In  1596  Chapman  wrote  a  vigorous  bit  of  verse  in  praise  of  Eng- 
lish valour,  entitled  De  Guiana,  as  a  preface  to  an  account  of  Eng- 
lish exploration  in  South  America;  and  in  1598  he  published  a 
conclusion  to  Marlowe' s  unfinished  Hero  and  Leander,  dedicating  the 
work  to  Lady  Walsingham,  the  wife  of  his  friend  and  patron,  Sir 
Thomas  Walsingham.''  In  the  same  year  he  dedicated  his  first 
attempt  at  a  translation  of  the  Iliad,  Se-ven  Books  of  the  Iliads  of 
Homer,  to  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and  a  little  later  in  the  same  year  he 
published  Achilles'  Shield,  from  the  eighteenth  book  of  the  Iliad. 

By  this  time  Chapman  had  already  begun  to  write  for  the  stage, 
for  Meres  in  fVit" s  Treasury,  1598,  mentions  him  as  one  of  the  best 
writers  both  for  comedy  and  tragedy.  Many  of  his  early  plays  have 
no  doubt  perished  ;  the  only  two  that  we  know  to  have  been  pro- 
duced before  Meres  wrote —  The  Blind  Beggar  of  Alexandria  and 
An  Humorous  Day's  Mirth  —  are  both  comedies.  The  first  of  these 
plays  was  produced  by  the  Admiral's  Men  at  Henslowe's  theatre,  the 
Rose,  on  Feb.  12,  1595-6,  with  great  success,  and  was  performed 
some  twenty  times  before  May,  1597,  when  it  yielded  the  stage 
to  the  Comedy  of  Humours,  which  we  may  safely  identify  with  An 
Humorous  Day's  Mirth.  During  the  following  year  Chapman  con- 
tinued to  work  for  Henslowe.    He  was  engaged  on  a   "  plotte  of 

1  Wood,  Athen.  Oxon.  II,  576. 

2  A.    Lohff,    George  Chafman  :   Berliner  Diisertation,  I90;,  p.  26. 

}  Sidney  Lee,  Modem  Philology,  Oct.  igoj,  has  shown  that  this  poem  is 
a  translation  from  the  French  of  Gilles  Durant. 

4  Sec  ///'/>«nii(Jf,  p.  I J9,  note  2,  for  further  information  about  Sir  Thomas 
Walsingham. 


Biograpl)^  ix 

Bengemen's,"  possibly  the  tragedy  of  Mortimer ^^  of  which  Jonson's 
plot  has  come  down  to  us.  He  received  payments  from  Henslowe 
for  several  plays  now  lost  :  The  iylle  of  a  luoman,  usually  cited 
as  The  Will  of  a  Woman,  but  according  to  the  latest  editor  of 
Henslowe's  Diary '^  more  probably,  The  Isle  {or  III)  of  a  Woman  ; 
The  Fountain  of  Neiv  Fashions ;  and  a  Pastoral  Tragedy.  He  also 
composed  for  Henslowe  the  first  draft  of  his  All  Fools,  called  origin- 
ally The  World  Runs  on  Wheels,  and  later  All  Fools  but  the  Fool.^ 
The  Blind  Beggar  was  published  in  1598  and  yf «  Humorous  Day's 
Mirth  in  1 599,  both  apparently  without  Chapman's  consent  or, 
at  least,  supervision.  In  the  latter  year  he  apparently  severed  his 
connection  with  Henslowe,  as  his  name  does  not  occur  again  in  the 
Diary. 

It  is  commonly  stated  that  about  this  time  Chapman  withdrew 
from  the  stage  to  devote  himself  to  his  translation  of  the  Iliad. 
This,  however,  is  far  from  probable.  The  first  instalments  of  this 
work  appeared  in  1598  before  Chapman  broke  with  Henslowe,  the 
next  not  before  1609,  at  which  time  Chapman  was  under  the  patron- 
age of  Prince  Henry.  It  is  more  likely  that  about  the  close  of  the 
sixteenth  century  Chapman  simply  transferred  his  services  as  a  play- 
wright from  Henslowe's  company  to  the  Chapel  Boys,  who  were 
playing  at  the  private  theatre  in  Blackfriars  from  1598  to  1603. 
For  this  company  he  seems  to  have  written  May-Day,  probably 
acted  about  1600  or  1601,  although  not  printed  till  161 1  ;  Sir  Giles 
Goosecap,*  published  anonymously  in  1606,  but  in  large  part,  if 
not  wholly,  the  work  of  Chapman  in  1601  or  1602  ;  The  Gentle- 
man Usher, ^  written  possibly  in  1602  ;  and  to  have  revised  All  Fools 
in  the  form  in  which  it  has  come  down  to  us,  in  1602  or  1603. 

1  The  tragedy  mentioned  by  Henslowe  on  Jan.  4  and  Jan.  8,  1597/8 
may  be  the  same  as  this,  or  another  tragedy,  nameless  and  lost. 

2  Henslowe's  Diary,  p.  226,  W.  W.  Greg,  1904.  Hazlitt  (Manual  far 
the  Collector^  etc.,  p.  94)  states  that  an  early  MS.  copy  of  The  Gentleman 
Usher  was  sold  among  Heber's  MSS.  under  the  name  of  the  The  (Vill  of 
a  H^oman, 

J   Henslowe's  entry  on  July  2,  1599. 

4  See  The  jiuthorship  of  Sir  Gyles  Goosecappe,  Modern  Philology,  July, 
1906. 

5  The  date  of  The  Gentleman  Usher  is  uncertain,  but  it  falls  between 
the  performance  of  Sir  Giles  Goosecap,  to  which  it  alludes  (see  Note 
I7'i  7-8,  p.  284),  and  the  entry  by  Valentine  Syms  in  the  Stationers'' 
Register,  November  26,  1605. 


X  315iograpl)^ 

The  latter  play '  was  performed  at  court  before  King  James  on 
New  Year's  Night,  1604-5,  ^^^  published  in  the  same  year. 

Monsieur  D'  O/i-ve  was  written  probably  in  1603  or  1604,  since  it 
was  performed  by  Her  Majesty's  Children  of  the  Revels,  the  com- 
pany which  had  succeeded  the  Chapel  Children  at  the  Blackfriars 
Theatre,  in  Jan. ,  1 604.  For  the  same  company  Chapman  in  i  605 
joined  with  Jonson  and  Marston  in  the  composition  of  Eastivard  Ho, 
a  play  whose  satirical  remarks  on  King  James's  countrymen  brought 
down  upon  the  authors  the  royal  displeasure  and  led  to  the  imprison- 
ment of  both  Jonson  and  Chapman.  They  were  even  threatened 
with  mutilation,  and  Jonson's  old  mother  secretly  conveyed  to  him 
a  paper  of  "  lustie  strong  poison  "  that,  if  things  came  to  the  worst, 
he  might  save  himself  by  a  Roman  death  from  torture  and  public 
shame.  An  interesting  series  of  letters  written  by  Chapman  and 
Jonson  on  this  occasion,  entreating  the  pardon  of  the  King  and  the 
favour  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  the  Earl  of  Salisbury,  the  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  and  other  courtly  patrons  of  literature,  was  discovered  by 
Mr.  Dobell  in  1 90 1  and  reprinted  in  Professor  Schelling's  Eastivard 
Hoe  and  The  Alchemht.'^  Jonson  and  Chapman  were  soon  released 
from  prison,  — Marston  seems  to  have  escaped  altogether, — and 
the  sensation  caused  by  the  affair  undoubtedly  served  as  an  adver- 
tisement of  Chapman's  work  as  a  dramatist  and  led  to  the  speedy 
publication  of  a  number  of  his  comedies.  Two  editions  of  Eaitivard 
Ho  and  one  of  All  Fools  appeared  in  1605  ;  and  Sir  Giles  Goose- 
cap,  Monsieur  D'  Oli-ve,  and  TAe  Gentleman  Usher,  in  1 606.  Mr. 
Fleay  ^  believes  that  the  governor  whose  foolish  words  and  actions 
furnish  the  farcical  close  of  the  fVidoiv'' s  Tears  is  a  satire  on  the 
judicial  authorities  with  whom  Chapman  had  come  into  contact  at 
the  time  of  his  arrest.  If  this  be  so,  we  may  date  this  play  about 
1606  —  it  was  not  published  until  1612  —  and  see  in  it  the  last 
of  Chapman's  comedies. 

As  Meres  tells  us.  Chapman  had  before  1598  obtained  a  high 
reputation  for  his  tragedies,  but  the  earliest  play  of  this  sort  which 


1  Cunningham,  Revels  Accounti,  published  for  Shaietfeare  Society,  p. 
204.  The  entry  is  forged,  but  is  supposed  to  be  based  upon  genuine  docu- 
ments. 

2  Belles-Lettres  Series,  pp.  159-164. 

i   Chronlch  of  the  English  Drama,  1,61, 


llBiograpl)^  xi 

has  been  preserved,  Bussy  D'  Amhois,^  cannot  have  been  composed 
in  its  present  form  before  the  death  of  Elizabeth  in  1603.  This  play 
is,  then,  the  first  of  a  group  of  dramas  dealing  with  events  in  the 
contemporary  history  of  France  on  which  Chapman's  fame  as  a  tragic 
dramatist  depends. 

Bussy  was  followed  in  the  spring  of  1608  —  not  1605,^  as 
stated  in  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography  —  by  the  double  play, 
The  Conspiracy  and  Tragedy  of  Charles  Duke  of  Byron.  The  per- 
formance of  these  plays,  in  one  of  which  the  reigning  queen  of 
France  was  represented  as  boxing  the  ears  of  her  royal  husband's 
mistress,  gave  great  offence  to  the  French  ambassador,  who  suc- 
ceeded in  having  the  performance  stopped,  and  endeavoured,  though 
apparently  in  vain,  to  have  the  author  punished.  Chapman,  how- 
ever, found  great  difficulty  in  securing  a  license  for  the  publication 
of  the  plays  and  was  finally  obliged  to  issue  them  in  a  mangled  form, 
with  large  omissions,  among  others  of  the  offensive  scene,  and  with 
considerable  revision.^  Tkc  Re-venge  of  Bussy  D^  Ambois,  founded, 
as  Professor  Boas  has  shown,  upon  the  same  authority  as  the  Byron 
plays  (Grimeston's  translation  in  1607  of  Jean  de  Serres'  History), 
probably  followed  them  shortly,  and  the  noble  play  of  Chabot,  pub- 
lished after  Chapman's  death  (in  1639,  in  a  form  somewhat  revised 
by  Shirley),*  closes  the  series  of  the  French  tragedies. 

With  this  play  Chapman's  activity  as  a  dramatist  ceases  for  an 
indefinite  period,  or  possibly  terminates  altogether.  He  had,  about 
1604,  or  possibly  after  his  release  from  prison  in  1605,  been  ap- 
pointed "sewer  in  ordinary"  to  Prince  Henry,  and  received  from 

1  Professor  Boas  {Busiy  D' Amhoii  and  The  Revenge  of  Bussy.,  Betles- 
Lettres  Series.,  p.  xii,  note)  calls  attention  to  certain  bits  of  evidence  which 
go  to  show  the  existence  of  a  play  on  Bussy  before  the  death  of  Elizabeth. 
If  this  play  were  Chapman's  it  must,  as  Professor  Boas  points  out,  have 
been  considerably  revised  after  the  accession  of  James  I,  when  it  was 
acted  by  Paul's  Boys. 

2  The  date  1605  is  founded  upon  a  misprint  in  the  English  translation 
of  von  Raumer's  Briefe  aus  Paris  xur  Erlduterung.,  etc.,  pt.  2,  pp.  276-277. 
In  the  German  original  the  date  is  rightly  given  as  April  j,  1608. 

J  See  Chapman's  letter  to  the  licenser  printed  in  the  Athenaeum.,  April 
6,  1901. 

4  Chabot  is  based  upon  the  relation  of  Etienne  Pasquier  {Recherches 
de  la  France).  The  story  of  Chabot  first  appears  in  the  1607  edition  of 
this  work  (Book  v,  chap.  12),  and  is  repeated,  with  details  which  occur  in 
the  play,  in  the  edition  of  1611. 


Xll 


IBiograpt)^ 


him  a  small  annual  pension  together  with  the  promise  of  a  hand- 
some reward  upon  the  completion  of  his  Homeric  translations.  To 
this  work  Chapman  on  the  conclusion  of  his  activity  as  a  dramatist 
devoted  himself  for  a  number  of  years.  He  published  the  first  twelve 
books  of  the  IHad,^  1610  ca.,  a  complete  translation  in  161 1, 
a  complete  translation  of  the  Odyssey'^  in  16 14,  and  a  folio  enti- 
tled The  Whole  Works  of  Homer  in  1 61 6.  To  this  list  we  must 
add,  for  the  sake  of  completeness,  The  Croivn  of  all  Homer's  Works, 
containing  the  Batrachomyomachia,  and  the  Hymns  and  Epigrams, 
published  in  1624. 

On  the  death  of  Prince  Henry,  Nov.  12,  1612,  Chapman  lost 
his  place  as  sewer  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  Prince  Charles  re- 
fused to  redeem  his  brother's  promise  of  a  reward  for  the  translation 
of  the  Iliad  or  to  grant  Chapman's  petition  for  "some  poor  copy- 
hold of  the  Princes  land  of  ^^40  rent,  if  any  such  I  find."  In  his 
verses  to  "the  immortal  memory  of  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales," 
Chapman  complains  bitterly  that 

"  Not  thy  thrice  sacred  will 
Signed  with  thy  death  mooves  any  to  fulfil 
Thy  just  bequests  to  me." 

Yet  in  spite  of  Charles's  harsh  treatment  Chapman  does  not  seem 
to  have  lost  favour  at  court.  He  composed  an  elaborate  masque  per- 
formed by  the  gentlemen  of  the  Middle  Temple  and  Lincoln's  Inn 
at  the  marriage  of  the  Princess  Elizabeth  to  the  Palsgrave  in  1613, 
and  in  honour  of  the  marriage  of  the  king's  favourite,  Somerset,  to 
the  divorced  Countess  of  Essex,  he  wrote  an  epithalamium  entitled 
Andromeda  Liberata,  which  seems  to  have  given  rise  to  some 
scandal.' 

Somerset's  fall  in  16 16,  however,  put  an  end  to  Chapman's 
hopes  of  "future  advance,"  for  there  seems  to  be  no  ground  for 
Wood's  hesitating  statement  that  he  was  "  a  sworn  servant  either 
to  King  James  I  or  his  royal  consort.  "    In  feet  it  is  evident  from 

1  A  copy  in  the  British  Museutn  is  assigned  hesitatingly  to  1610.  See 
also  Warton,  History  of  English  Poetry,  iv,  }!?. 

2  The  first  12  books  of  the  Odyssey  seem  to  have  been  published  sep- 
arately.    Sec  article  on  Chapman  in  Dictionary  of  National  Biography . 

i  This  seems  clear  from  the  title  of  a  later  work  by  Chapman,  yl  .  .  . 
Justification  of  a  .  .  .  maliciously  inttrfrettd  fotm  entitled,  Andromeda 
liberata,  1614, 


llBiograp!)^ 


the  lately  discovered  Chapman  letters  '  that  much  of  the  poet's 
later  life  was  passed  in  poverty.  Yet  according  to  Oldys  ^  he  was 
"  much  resorted  to  by  young  persons  of  parts  as  a  poetical  chron- 
icle ;  but  was  very  choice  who  he  admitted  to  him,  and  preserved 
in  his  own  person  the  dignity  of  poetry. 

In  his  last  years  Chapman  seems  once  more  to  have  turned  his 
attention  to  the  drama.  In  1631  he  published  Caesar  and  Pom- 
pey,  a  Roman  Tragedy,  written  long  before,  and  now  given  to  the 
world,  perhaps  under  stress  of  poverty,  in  haste  and  without  revi- 
sion. He  seems  also  to  have  entered  into  friendly  relations  with 
Shirley,  the  favourite  playwright  of  the  court,  and  the  youngest,  as 
Chapman  was  the  oldest,  of  the  dramatists  of  the  great  period.  The 
Ball  was  licensed  as  a  play  by  Shirley  in  1632,  but  Chapman's 
name  appears  with  Shirley's  on  the  title-page  of  the  first  edition, 
1639,  and  traces  of  Chapman's  hand  seem  visible  in  the  last  act. 
Chabot,^  probably  revised  by  Shirley  for  performance,  was  printed 
as  the  joint  work  of  these  poets  in  the  same  year.  Chapman  also 
made  a  thorough  revision  of  Bussy  D^  Ambois,  probably  for  a  per- 
formance by  the  King's  Servants,  which  served  as  the  basis  for  the 
revised  edition  of  that  play  in  1 64 1.  This  revision  Mr.  Fleay  takes 
to  have  been  the  poet's  latest  work.^ 

Chapman  died  May  12,  1634,  and  was  buried  in  the  church- 
yard of  St.  Giles  in  the  Fields.  His  friend,  Inigo  Jones,  erected  a 
monument  to  his  memory  which  is  still  standing. 

Wood  speaks  of  Chapman,  probably  on  the  testimony  of  those 
who  had  known  the  poet  in  his  later  years,  as  "  a  person  of  most 
reverend  aspect,  religious  and  temperate,  qualities  rarely  meeting  in 
a  poet. ' '    There  is  no  proof  of  his  acquaintance  with  Shakespeare, 

1  See  Athenaeum,  March  25,  and  April  ij,  1901. 

2  MSS.  notes  in  a  copy  of  Langbaine's  Dramatick  Poets  in  the  British 
Museum. 

}  Licensed  by  Herbert,  April  29,  1635. 

4  There  is  no  reason  except  the  publisher's  statements  for  assigning 
to  Chapman  Revenge  for  Honour  (published  in  1654),  *"<'  many  reasons 
against  his  authorship  of  this  play.  The  anonymous  Two  fp'ise  Men  and 
All  the  rest  Fools,  1619,  was  first  ascribed  to  Chapman  by  the  bookseller, 
Francis  Kirkman,  1671,  a  mistake  probably  caused  by  the  similarity  of 
the  name  to  that  of  All  Fools.  It  cannot  possibly  be  Chapman's.  Two 
further  plays  entered  as  Chapman's  in  the  Stationers''  Register,  in  1660, 
The  Torkshire  Gentlewoman  and  her  Son,  and  Fatal  Love,  were  never 
published,  and  were  destroyed  in  manuscript  by  Warburton's  cook. 


xiv  llBiograpl)^ 

but  he  was  loved  by  Jonson,'  and  was  on  terms  of  friendship  with 
Marlowe,  Fletcher,  Field,  whom  he  calls  his  "loved  son,"  /'.  e., 
scholar,  and  Shirley.  His  life  covers  practically  the  whole  period 
of  the  Elizabethan  drama. 

I  The  fragment  of  an  invective  against  Jonson  preserved  in  the  Ashmole 
MSS  in  the  Bodleian  seems  to  show  that  Chapman,  possibly  on  account 
of  his  friendship  for  Inigo  Jones,  took  sides  against  Jonson  in  the  conflicts 
that  clouded  Ben's  last  years. 


91ntroDuct(on 

After  the  great  names  of  Shakespeare,  Spenser,  and 
Marlowe,  that  of  Chapman  is  perhaps  the  best  known 
among  Elizabethan  poets.  But  Chapman's  fame  to-day 
depends  almost  entirely  upon  his  translation  of  the  Iliad 
and  Odyssey.  That  noble  work  in  which  for  the  first 
time  "  deep-browed  Homer  "  spoke  in  English  accents, 
although  temporarily  superseded  by  Pope's  version,  has 
never  quite  lost  its  hold  upon  English  readers.  Chap- 
man's dramas,  on  the  other  hand,  although  repeatedly 
praised  by  his  contemporaries,  seem  even  in  his  day 
to  have  been  little  read  ;  of  all  the  plays  published 
under  his  name  only  two,  Bussy  W Ambois  and  The 
Conspiracy  and  Tragedy  of  Biron,  ever  attained  a  sec- 
ond edition.  Dryden's  slashing  attack  on  the  style  of 
Bussy  is  well  known,  and  in  the  century  that  followed 
Dry  den.  Chapman's  plays  seem  to  have  been  almost 
entirely  forgotten.  With  the  dawn  of  romantic  criti- 
cism in  England  attention  was  drawn  to  their  merits 
by  Lamb  and  Hazlitt,  but  it  was  not  until  1873  that 
a  collected  edition  of  the  plays  appeared  in  the  form 
of  a  so-called  facsimile  reprint.  Up  to  that  time  Chap- 
man's dramas,  with  the  exception  of  an  occasional 
reprint  in  various  collections  of  old  plays,  were  prac- 
tically inaccessible  to  English  readers.'      Lowell,   for 

'  Eastward  Ho  and  TAe  fVidoiv's  Tears  were  included  in 
Dodsley's  Old  Plays  in  1744  ;  All  Fools  was  added  in  1780.   Bussy, 


xvi  31ntroDuction 

example,  when  writing  his  interesting  comment  on 
Chapman  in  Conversations  on  Some  of  the  Old  English 
Poets  (1845),  had  never  seen  a  copy  of  The  Con- 
spiracy and  Tragedy  of  Biron. 

The  reprint  of  1873  was  followed  in  1874-5  ^V  the 
first  edition  of  the  complete  works  of  Chapman.  It 
included  three  plays.  Eastward  Ho,  Chabot,  and  The 
Ball,  which  had  been  omitted  in  the  reprint.  The  first 
two  of  these,  though  written  in  collaboration  with  other 
dramatists,  have  enough  of  Chapman  to  make  them 
indispensable  to  any  study  of  his  work. 

With  the  appearance  of  these  editions  a  systematic 
and  critical  study  of  Chapman's  work  was  for  the  first 
time  rendered  possible,  and  Swinburne's  admirable  essay 
on  the  poetry  and  the  dramas,  which  was  prefixed  to 
the  third  volume  of  the  collected  works,  was  the  first 
fruit  of  such  a  study.  Neither  of  these  editions,  how- 
ever, is  satisfactory.  The  reprint  is  by  no  means  a  reli- 
able facsimile,  especially  in  the  matter  of  punctuation  ; 
and  the  later  edition,  to  which  Mr.  Shepherd  put  his 
name,  modernises  the  spelling,  leaves  palpable  errors  of 
the  old  texts  unaltered,  and  introduces  needless  changes 
into  the  text  without  the  slightest  notice  of  alteration. 
A  critical  edition  of  Chapman's  plays  in  the  light  of 
modern  scholarship  still  remains  to  be  undertaken. 

Modern  critics  of  Chapman  have  been  inclined  to 
pass  over  his  comedies  with  but  slight  consideration,  and 
to  devote  their  main  attention  to  his  more  serious  plays. 
This  is  due,  I  fancy,  to  the  old  conception  of  Chapman  as 

Monsieur  D'  Oli-ve,  and  May  Day  were  included  in  Dilke's  Old 
Engliih  Plays,  1 8 14-15. 


HIntroOuction  xvii 

a  poet  rather  than  a  dramatist.  And  for  lofty  poetry  we 
must,  no  doubt,  turn  rather  to  his  tragedies  than  his 
comedies.  But  if  the  first  essential  of  drama  be  action 
rather  than  poetry,  there  can  be  as  little  doubt  that  as  a 
playwright  Chapman  obtains  his  highest  success  in  com- 
edy. It  would  not  indeed  be  unfair  to  call  him  a  tragic 
poet  and  a  comic  dramatist.  In  his  tragedies  the  epic 
element  too  often  outweighs  the  dramatic.  The  two 
Biron  plays,  for  example,  are  rather  a  continuous  epic 
poem  than  a  drama,  and  their  temporary  success  upon 
the  stage  must  have  been  due  to  the  interest  of  the 
audience  in  the  subject  rather  than  to  their  dramatic 
effectiveness.  Again,  the  didactic  element  in  the  tra- 
gedies constantly  interferes  with  the  dramatic.  Noble 
passages  of  gnomic  verse  are  inlaid  in  the  play  with 
little  regard  for  dramatic  propriety  or  the  development 
of  the  action.  Chapman  himself  regarded  this  predom- 
inance of  the  didactic  element  as  a  virtue  rather  than 
a  vice  ;  "material  instruction,  elegant  and  sententious 
excitation  to  virtue,  and  deflection  from  her  contrary  ' ' 
are,  he  asserts  in  the  dedication  to  The  Revenge  of 
Bussy,  *'  the  soule,  lims,  and  limits  of  an  autenticall 
tragedy."  Strictly  interpreted  this  dogma  would  turn 
every  tragedy  into  an  essay  on  ethics,  and  Chapman's 
practice  was  fortunately  more  liberal  than  his  theory. 
But  it  is  plain  to  the  student  of  his  work  that  Chap- 
man's tragedies  are  marked  by  a  constant  struggle  be- 
tween the  author's  theory  and  the  demands  of  the 
contemporary  stage,  a  conflict  in  which,  as  may  be  seen 
in  The  Revenge  of  Bussy,  theory  finally  triumphed. 
It  is  not  likely  that  in  the  composition  of  comedy  Chap- 


xviii  jflntroDuction 

man  took  himself  or  his  work  so  seriously.  Yet  even  in 
his  comedies  it  may  be  noted  that  whenever  the  action 
grows  serious  and  approaches  the  bounds  of  tragedy,  as 
in  the  last  act  of  The  Gentleman  Usher,  the  gnomic 
element  rises  again  into  prominence  and  long  passages 
of  didactic  and  reflective  verse  retard  the  action  of  the 
play. 

In  pure  comedy,  however.  Chapman,  unlike  his 
friend  and  occasional  collaborator  Jonson,  had  no  the- 
ories to  realise,  and  free  from  the  trammels  of  drama- 
tic dogma  he  was  able  in  such  work  to  develop  fully 
his  undoubted  dramatic  qualities.  What  these  were  a 
survey  of  his  comedies  will,  perhaps,  make  clear. 

The  Blind  Beggar  of  Alexandria,  Chapman's  first 
extant  play,  is,  as  it  stands,  almost  outside  the  pale  of 
criticism.  This,  however,  may  not  be  altogether  the  au- 
thor's fault.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  its  present 
form  represents  a  stage  version  in  which  the  original  play 
has  been  cut,  altered,  and,  possibly,  in  parts  enlarged.  In 
no  other  way  can  we  account  for  the  amazing  fashion  in 
which  serious  and  even  tragic  motives  appear  only  to 
disappear.  I  take  it  that  The  Blind  Beggar  was  orig- 
inally a  romantic  drama,  containing,  along  with  a  good 
deal  of  crude  and  rather  boisterous  farce,  such  tragic 
elements  as  the  adulterous  passion  of  the  queen  for 
Cleanthes,  her  murder  of  his  wife,  her  implied  murder 
of  her  own  husband,  the  invasion  of  Egypt  by  the 
Asian  kings,  and  their  overthrow  by  the  hero.  In  the 
present  form  of  the  play  we  catch  only  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  these  motives  ;  but  it  is  impossible,  I  think, 
that  Chapman  should  have  allowed  the  tragic  figure  of 


3dntroDttction  xix 

the  queen  to  drop  out  of  the  play  altogether  without 
giving  us  the  slightest  intimation  of  her  fate.  Such  an 
omission  savours  rather  of  the  recklessness  of  some 
stage  manager  than  of  the  negligence  even  of  a  novice 
in  the  drama.  It  is  probable  that  the  play  as  first 
written  w^as  too  long  for  convenient  presentation,  and 
that  in  adapting  it  for  the  stage  the  reviser  had  an 
eye  rather  upon  contemporary  taste  than  on  the  rules 
of  dramatic  construction.  We  know  from  Henslowe's 
Diary  that  The  Blind  Beggar '  —  presumably  in  its  pre- 
sent form  —  was  a  very  successful  play,  and  its  success 
was  probably  due  to  the  comic  element  that  still  remains 
rather  than  to  the  tragic  that  has  so  ruthlessly  been  cut 
away. 

It  is,  perhaps,  a  little  difficult  for  us  to  grasp  the 
causes  of  the  success  of  such  a  play.  The  story  is 
absurd,  the  characterisation  is  practically  nil,  and  the 
dialogue  is  rather  coarse  than  witty.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  action  never  flags,  there  is  an  abundance  of 
comic  and  farcical  incident,  and  the  diction,  passing 
easily  from  fluent  verse  to  racy  prose  and  back  again, 
is  quite  free  from  Chapman's  common  faults  of  in- 
volved expression  and  obscurity.  The  part  of  the  hero 
in  his  fourfold  personality  was  no  doubt  a  grateful  role 
for  some  popular  actor,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
this  part  has  been  padded  by  some  other  hand  than 
that  of  the  author. 

I  have  dwelt  at  some  length  upon  this  first  play  of 
Chapman's,  because  I  believe  that  we  may  discern  in 
it,  with  all  its  imperfections  and  absurdities,  the  germ 
'  For  the  dates  of  its  performances  see  footnote  to  p.  117. 


XX  31ncroDuccion 

of  Chapman's  conception  of  comedy.  This,  as  will 
be  abundantly  shown  in  the  consideration  of  his  later 
work,  consists  not  so  much  in  witty  dialogue  after  the 
fashion  of  Lyly,  or  humorous  characterisation  in  the 
manner  of  Shakespeare,  as  in  action,  particularly  in 
the  invention  and  elaboration  of  amusing  situations. 
Chapman  was  not  a  master  of  construction,  but  in  the 
execution  of  single  scenes  he  is  at  times  hardly  sur- 
passed by  Shakespeare  himself. 

The  text  of  Chapman's  second  comedy.  An  Hu- 
morous Day's  Mirth,  is  so  corrupt,  and  the  stage-direc- 
tions are  so  infrequent  and  confusing,  that  it  is  ex- 
tremely difficult  to  follow  the  story.  Here,  too,  we 
probably  have  to  deal  with  a  text  that  was  altered  and 
published  without  the  author's  supervision.  None  the 
less  we  can  see  in  this  play  a  distinct  advance  in 
Chapman's  art.  It  is  a  pure  comedy,  unmixed  with 
such  tragic  elements  as  appear  in  The  Blind  Beggar. 
The  dialogue  shows  in  its  frequent  puns  and  wit- com- 
bats the  influence  of  Lyly,  and  there  is  an  anticipa- 
tion of  Jonson's  work  in  the  portrayal  of  various 
"humours,"  incarnate  in  the  female  puritan,  the  jeal- 
ous husband,  the  foolish  courtier,  and  the  melancholy 
gentleman.  But  none  of  these  figures  have  the  pre- 
cision of  outline  or  dramatic  effectiveness  of  Jonson's 
characters,  and,  on  the  whole,  the  play  may  be  pro- 
nounced a  comedy  of  intrigue  revolving  about  one  cen- 
tral figure.  Chapman's  weakness  in  plot  construction  is 
very  evident  here  where,  so  far  as  is  known,  he  was 
drawing  on  his  own  invention  for  the  story.  The  main 
thread  of  the  plot  is  constantly  obscured  by  superfluous 


31ntroDuctton  xxi 

incident,  or  buried  under  unnecessary  dialogue.  But 
it  is  never  quite  broken,  and  all  the  motives  of  the  play 
find  in  the  end  their  fit  solution.  Chapman  had,  it 
seems,  by  this  time  clarified  his  conception  of  comedy, 
although  he  was  not  yet  sure  enough  of  hand  to  realise 
it  in  actual  composition. 

The  gap  between  An  Humorous  Day  s  Mirth  and 
Chapman's  next  surviving  play  is  immense.  Mr. 
Swinburne  has  rightly  pronounced  All  Fools  "  one  of 
the  most  faultless  examples  of  high  comedy  in  the 
whole  rich  field  of  our  Elizabethan  drama."  Possibly, 
however,  this  gap  may  seem  to  us  wider  than  in  reality 
it  was ;  for  All  Fools,  originally  written  for  Henslowe 
in  1599,  was  not  only  revised  for  a  later  production 
at  Blackfriars,  but  was,  if  we  may  trust  the  testi- 
mony of  the  dedication,'  published  by  the  author  him- 
self to  forestall  the  appearance  of  a  pirated  edition, 
"  patcht  with  others  wit."  How  great  a  difference 
this  supervision  on  the  part  of  an  author  made  in  the 
printed  version  of  a  play  only  those  can  rightly  esti- 
mate who  have  struggled  in  vain  to  catch  the  play- 
wright's plan  in  such  a  botcht-up  piece  of  work,  for 
example,  as  The  Blind  Beggar.  All  Fools  appears  to 
have  been  the  first  play  published  by  the  author  him- 
self, and  in  spite  of  an  occasional  misprint  or  wrong 
assignment  of  speeches  it  may  be  read  with  delight  even 
in  the  old  quarto  of  1605. 

It  is  impossible  to  determine  with  any  degree  of 
precision  what  changes  were  made  when  this  play 
was  revised.  I  fancy  that  they  consisted  in  polishing 
'  See  Appendix,  p.  139. 


xxii  3f|i^troliuction 

the  poetry,  sharpening  the  dialogue,  and,  probably, 
in  the  addition  of  several  prose  orations  somewhat  after 
the  manner  of  Lyly,  a  manner  which  would  especially 
delight  the  cultivated  audience  of  the  Blackfriars  Thea- 
tre. The  main  plot  and  the  characters  must  have  been 
very  much  the  same  in  both  versions,  since  plot  and 
characters  alike  are  drawn  directly  from  known  sources. 
I  shall  discuss  the  relation  of  All  Fools  to  the  Heau- 
tontimorumenos  and  the  Adelphi  of  Terence  at  a  later 
point  in  this  introduction.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  say 
here  that  Chapman's  sources  gave  him  in  this  case  ex- 
actly what  he  most  needed,  a  plot  carefully  involved 
and  clearly  worked  out,  and  typical  characters,  limited 
in  depth  but  sharply  defined.  His  own  genius  for  ro- 
mantic poetry,  his  talent  for  vigorous  dialogue,  and 
his  dexterity  in  the  invention  and  handling  of  comic 
situation  did  the  rest.  Apart  from  certain  excrescences 
in  speech  and  incident,  and  a  slight  weakness  of  treat- 
ment in  the  solution.  All  Fools  is  the  most  nearly  per- 
fect of  Chapman's  plays. 

How  much  All  Fools  owes  to  its  sources  we  can 
best  realise  when  we  turn  to  what  was  probably  Chap- 
man's next  succeeding  comedy.  The  source  of  May 
Day,  long  unknown  to  Chapman's  commentators,  has 
been  clearly  shown  by  Stiefel  {Shakespeare  Jahrbuch, 
vol.  35)  to  be  the  Alessandro  of  the  Italian  poet, 
A.  Piccolomini.  In  fact  it  would  hardly  be  unfair 
to  call  May  Day  an  adaptation  of  the  Italian  play, 
for  Chapman  has  retained  the  three  intrigues,  and 
most  of  the  characters,  of  his  source.  Yet  he  has  been 
by  no  means  a  mere  translator  ;  he  has  discarded  cer- 


idntroDuction  xxiii 

tain  superfluous  figures,  added  others,  and  transformed 
the  stock  braggadocio  of  Itahan  comedy  into  a  typic- 
ally Elizabethan  figure.  And  his  advance  in  power 
of  dramatic  construction  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  he 
has  bound  the  severed  intrigues  of  the  Italian  play 
closely  together  in  the  character  of  Lodovico,  whose 
restless  energy,  hke  Lemot's  in  An  Humorous  Daf  s 
Mirth,  leads  him  to  take  an  active  part  in  them  all, 
and  thus  to  serve  as  the  mainspring  of  the  whole  action. 

Yet  Ma'^  Day  is  by  no  means  one  of  the  best  of 
Chapman's  comedies.  Based  as  it  is  upon  an  Italian 
comedy  of  intrigue,  the  interest  lies  wholly  in  the  ac- 
tion, and  this  is  so  hurried  and  involved  as  to  perplex 
and  weary  the  reader.  It  is  impossible  to  take  any 
lively  interest  in  the  characters,  for  the  reason,  I  sup- 
pose, that  these  stock  figures  of  Italian  comedy  were 
incapable  of  the  humanising  and  vitalising  treatment 
which  Terence,  and  Chapman  after  him,  succeeded  in 
applying  to  the  types  of  the  New  Comedy.  And  the 
play  as  a  whole  quite  lacks  the  poetry  and  the  breath 
of  romance  which  illuminates  and  enlivens  All  Fools, 
The  Gentleman  Usher,  and  Monsieur  Z)'  Olive.  The 
prose  dialogue  is  capital,  but  verse  is  almost  wholly 
absent.  In  this  respect,  also,  though  superior  in  con- 
struction. May  Day  closely  resembles  An  Humorous 
Daf  s  Mirth,  —  another  reason  for  fixing  its  date  be- 
fore, not  after.  Chapman's  best  romantic  comedies. 

If  Sir  Giles  Goosecap  was  written  by  Chapman 
about  1 60 1  or  1602,  as  I  have  tried  to  show  else- 
where,' it  would  seem  at  first  glance  to  denote  a  dis- 

'  The  AuthorMp  of  Sir  Gyles  Goosecappe  :  Modern  Philology, 
July,  1906. 


xxiv  JflntroDuction 

tinct  relapse  both  in  Chapman's  conception  of  comedy 
and  in  his  power  of  execution,  for  it  is  markedly  in- 
ferior in  both  these  qualities  to  All  Fools  and  May 
Day.  It  seems  to  have  been  one  of  Chapman's  first 
plays  for  the  Children  of  the  Chapel,  then  acting  at 
Blackfriars.  And  in  his  attempt  to  hit  the  taste  of 
this  audience  and  working,  as  it  seems,  without  a 
model  before  him,  the  author  came  largely  under  the 
influence  of  Jonson,  then  the  leading  playwright  for  this 
company.  The  satiric  description,  in  Act  i,  sc.  i,  of 
dramatis  personae  not  yet  upon  the  stage  is  a  palpable 
borrowing  of  one  of  Jonson' s  well-known  devices,  and 
if  Mr.  Fleay  is  right  in  his  conjecture  that  the  various 
knights  who  appear  in  the  play  are  personal  carica- 
tures, we  should  have  another  marked  imitation  of 
Jonson.  More  interesting,  however,  in  relation  to 
Chapman's  later  development  is  the  appearance  in  Sir 
Giles  for  the  first  time  of  a  romantic  love-story  of  a 
high  and  serious  type,  founded, .as  Professor  Kittredge 
has  shown,'  upon  Chaucer's  Troilus  and  Cryseide. 
The  scenes  which  deal  with  this  theme  are  written  for 
the  most  part  in  verse,  studded  with  passages  of  lofty, 
but,  at  times,  somewhat  obscure  poetry.  As  a  whole 
Sir  Giles  is  not  a  play  of  which  the  author  had  reason 
to  be  proud,  and  it  may  be  for  this  reason  that  Chap- 
man never  owned  it ;  but  these  love-scenes  might  well 
be  the  prototype  of  some  of  his  finest  work  in  The 
Gentleman  Usher  and  Monsieur  U  Olive. 

The  Gentleman  Usher  marks  the  triumph  of  poetic 
and  romantic  comedy  in  Chapman's  work.    Mr.  Swin- 

'   Journal  of  Germanic  Philology,  vol.  2,  pp.   7-13. 


3flntroDuccion  xxv 

burne  notes  that  this  play  is  '*  distinguished  from  all 
Chapman's  other  works  by  the  serious  grace  and  sweet- 
ness of  the  love-scenes,  and  the  higher  tone  of  femi- 
nine character  and  masculine  regard  which  is  sustained 
throughout  the  graver  passages."  A  more  detailed  ex- 
amination of  the  play  will  be  made  later.  It  is  enough 
to  say  here  that  Chapman  nowhere  else  appears  more 
original,  or  after  the  action  has  once  started  more 
completely  in  sympathy  with  and  master  of  his  subject. 
The  romantic  love-story  —  a  theme  rather  in  the  vein 
of  Fletcher  than  of  earlier  dramatists  —  is  lightened  and 
diversified  by  comic  scenes  ranging  from  frank  buf- 
foonery and  gross  farce  to  little  masterpieces  of  high 
comedy.  In  the  figure  of  Bassiolo  Chapman  created 
a  character  at  once  more  real  and  more  genuinely  hu- 
morous than  any  that  he  had  been  hitherto  able  to  con- 
ceive. But  even  in  the  scenes  which  are  dominated 
by  this  figure  the  comic  entertainment  is  furnished  not 
so  much  by  the  revelation  of  his  character  as  by  the 
exquisitely  ridiculous  situations  in  which  he  is  in- 
volved. Here  as  elsewhere  Chapman  holds  to  the 
necessity  of  action  and  situation  in  comedy. 

In  Monsieur  D'  Olive  we  find  Chapman's  talents  as 
a  comic  and  a  romantic  poet  combined,  but  by  no 
means  so  successfully  blended  as  in  The  Gentleman 
Usher.  The  play  is  composed  of  two  distinct  plots 
which  have  only  the  slightest  connection  with  each 
other.  The  first  deals  with  a  purely  romantic  theme  ; 
the  second  with  the  gulling  of  Monsieur  D' Olive,  the 
character  who  gives  his  name  to  the  play.  The  ar- 
rangement seems   to  me  somewhat  mechanical;  each 


xxvi  iflntroDuction 

act  falls  into  two  scenes,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
the  last  scene  of  the  play,  where  an  unsuccessful  at- 
tempt is  made  to  combine  the  two  plots  in  a  common 
denouement,  the  first  scene  regularly  deals  with  the 
romantic  story,  the  second  with  the  comic  underplot. 
And  as  Swinburne  has  pointed  out,  "the  main  interest 
is  more  and  more  thrust  aside ' '  as  the  play  goes  on, 
until  at  the  close  "it  is  fairly  hustled  into  a  corner." 
Curiously  enough,  considering  Chapman's  earlier  work, 
the  underplot  is  notably  deficient  in  action.  The  trick 
which  the  courtiers  play  upon  D'Olive  is  far  from  fur- 
nishing sufficient  material  for  a  comic  action,  and  as  a 
matter  of  fact  the  original  underplot  comes  to  an  end  in 
the  fourth  act,  where  a  new  intrigue  has  to  be  devised 
to  bring  its  main  figure  once  more  before  the  public 
and  include  him  in  the  final  solution  of  the  play.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  figure  of  Monsieur  D'Olive  is  Chap- 
man's most  elaborate  piece  of  characterisation.  Half- 
wit, half-gull,  and  wholly  Elizabethan  in  his  mingled 
good  nature,  vanity,  and  volubility,  he  is  one  of  the 
most  diverting  figures  in  the  whole  range  of  contem- 
porary comedy.  In  a  sense  he  belongs  to  the  humorous 
characters  which  Jonson  had  introduced  to  the  Eliza- 
bethan stage,  but  although  he  was  doubtless  meant  as 
a  satiric  portrait  of  the  giddy-pated,  fortune-hunting 
courtiers  who  had  flocked  in  their  hundreds  to  wel- 
come the  accession  of  James  I,  there  is  not  the  slightest 
trace  of  that  earnestness,  not  to  say  bitterness,  of  moral 
reprobation  which  Jonson  would  have  thrown  into  his 
delineation  of  such  a  figure.  The  influence  of  Jonson 
may   be    felt    also,  I    believe,  in    the  racy,   idiomatic 


^IntroDuctton  xxvii 

prose  in  which  D' Olive  betrays  his  follies  to  a  de- 
lighted world.  It  is  unfortunate  that  Jonson's  influence 
over  his  friend  did  not  extend  farther  and  lead  him  to 
devise  a  proper  plot  in  which  to  set  this  well-drawn 
character.  Only  an  analysis  of  the  comic  scenes  of 
Monsieur  D' Olive  will  reveal  their  utter  emptiness 
of  action,  and  this  is  the  more  remarkable,  since,  as 
I  have  pointed  out,  it  is  as  a  rule  in  action  and  incident 
that  Chapman's  comic  force  consists.  One  can  only 
conjecture  that  the  influence  of  Jonson's  comedy  of 
humours,  and  possibly  the  stage  success  of  Bassiolo  in 
The  Gentleman  Usher,  may  have  induced  Chapman 
to  compose  this  underplot  which  rehes  for  effect  solely 
upon  a  humorous  character  study. 

The  influence  of  Jonson  is,  of  course,  even  more 
apparent  in  Eastward  Ho,  where  Chapman  was  collab- 
orating with  Jonson  and  Marston.  An  exact  assign- 
ment of  the  scenes  of  this  play  has  not  yet  been  made, 
except  by  Mr.  Fleay,'who,  without  giving  any  reason 
for  his  opinion,  ascribes  Acts  i— ii,  i,  to  Marston, 
Acts  II,  ii  -  IV,  i,  to  Chapman,  and  the  conclusion 
to  Jonson.  That  Chapman  wrote  the  part  here  as- 
signed to  him  no  student  of  his  comedies  can  doubt. 
The  only  question  is  whether  he  did  not  write  consid- 
erably more.  My  own  opinion,  after  a  repeated  read- 
ing of  the  play,  would  be  that  Jonson  furnished  the 
plot.  Chapman  wrote  practically  the  whole  play,  and 
Marston  touched  it  up  here  and  there  with  satire  on 
the  Scotch  and  on  King  James's  knights,  and,  in  Swin- 
burne's phrase,  '♦  dropped  one  or  two  momentary 
'   Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama,  vol.  2,  p.  8  I. 


xxviii  31ntroDuctton 

indecencies  to  attest  his  passage."  Such  an  assignment 
would  account  at  once  for  the  admirable  construction 
and  precise  characterisation  of  the  play,  for  its  genial 
and  sunny  temper  far  more  characteristic  of  Chapman 
than  of  either  of  his  fellows,  and  for  the  ease  and  nat- 
uralness of  the  general  conduct  of  the  action.' 

Assuming,  as  I  think  we  are  justified  in  doing,  that 
a  very  considerable  portion  of  this  excellent  comedy 
belongs,  so  far  at  least  as  the  actual  composition  goes, 
to  Chapman,  we  find  him  here  engaged  on  a  realistic 
comedy  of  contemporary  English  life  akin  to  Jonson's 
Every  Man  in  his  Humour  and  Dekker's  Shoemaker'' s 
Holiday  ;  and  even  if  the  credit  of  the  construction  and 
the  characterisation  belong,  as  they  probably  do,  to 
Jonson,  it  is  hard  to  find  due  terms  of  praise  for  Chap- 
man's  admirable  execution.  Particularly  remarkable  for 
their  comic  force  are  the  scenes  in  which  Gertrude  sets 
out  in  her  coach  amid  the  plaudits  of  admiring  neigh- 
bours to  "dress  up"  that  castle  in  the  air  which  she 
fancies  she  has  won  by  marriage,  and  the  later  scene, 
where  stranded  in  her  poor  garret  she  clings  desper- 
ately to  her  shreds  of  nobility  and  sadly  contrasts  the 
behaviour  of  her  own  knight  with  that  of  the  Knight  of 
the  Sun  or  Palmerin  of  England.  Eminently  characteris- 
tic of  Chapman's  manner  of  letting  the  audience  into  the 

'  Bearing  in  mind  Chapman's  tendency  to  repeat  himself,  I  would 
call  attention  to  the  similarity  of  Gertrude's  behaviour  in  i,  ii  (a 
scene  assigned  by  Mr.  Fleay  to  Marston),  to  that  of  Elimine  in  The 
Blind  Beggar  of  Alexandria  (Chapman's  Dramatic  Works,  vol.  I, 
pp.  27-28),  and  to  the  still  more  striking  similarity  between  the 
behaviour  of  Security  in  in,  ii,  and  iii,  iii,  and  that  of  Gostanzo 
toward  Rinaldoand  Marc.  Antonio  in  All  Fools  (iii,  i,  and  iv,  i). 


JntroDuctton  xxix 

secret  of  a  comic  situation  is  the  way  in  which  Security  is 
induced  to  play  the  go-between  for  his  own  wife  and  the 
gay  Sir  Petronel  ;  and  Chapman's  love  of  farcical  stage 
eiFect  is  never  more  happily  displayed  than  in  the 
scene  where  the  shipwrecked  Security  in  dripping  gown 
and  nightcap  is  rebuked  by  his  spouse  for  spending  the 
night  abroad  at  taverns.  So  successful  indeed  in  con- 
ception, construction,  and  detailed  execution  is  this 
lively  comedy  that  one  can  only  regret  that  Chapman 
and  Jonson  did  not  form  a  literary  partnership  as  close 
and  lasting  as  that  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Chapman's  last  comedy.  The  Widow'' s  Tears, 
printed  in  1612,  but  probably  written  much  earlier,' 
has  never  received  the  attention  it  deserves.  Possibly  its 
brutally  cynical  tone  toward  women  has  disgusted  the 
commentators,  but  it  is  certainly  permitted  a  comic  writer 
to  take  this  tone.  Congreve,  for  example,  is  none 
the  less  one  of  the  greatest  of  English  comic  dramatists 
because  of  his  utter  disbelief  in  women's  vows  and 
women's  tears.  And  if  a  dramatist  takes  for  his  theme 
the  story  of  the  Ephesian  matron  as  told  by  Petronius, 
it  is  hard  to  see  what  other  tone  he  could  adopt.  As 
a  matter  of  fact.  The  Widow' s  Tears  is  written  with 
amazing  force  and  sparkles  with  cynical  humour.  The 
character  of  Tharsalio,  in  particular,  who  wins  his  goal 
by  sheer  audacity,  and  whose  rooted  distrust  of  woman- 
kind is  based  upon  his  own  unsavoury  experiences,  is  one 
that  Fletcher  might  have  envied.  The  adaptation  of 
the  classic  story  to  a  dramatic  form  is,  up  to  a  certain 

'   Fleay,  Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama,  vol.  I,  p.  6 1,  dates  it 
ca.  1605. 


XXX  3fIntroDuction 

point,  a  marvel  of  ingenuity,  and  Chapman's  substitu- 
tion of  the  disguised  husband  for  the  stranger  of  the 
Petronian  tale  as  the  widow's  tempter — an  uncon- 
scious reversion  to  the  earlier  Oriental  version '  of  the 
story  —  is  a  true  stroke  of  dramatic  genius.  It  points 
directly  to  the  only  proper  solution  of  the  plot,  the 
widow's  pretended  recognition  of  her  husband's  disguise 
and  her  imposition  upon  him  of  this  belief  by  dint  of 
feminine  audacity  and  voluble  reiteration.  But  the 
actual  solution  in  the  drama  is  perhaps  the  most  hope- 
less muddle  in  Elizabethan  comedy.  It  is  quite  impos- 
sible to  make  out  what  effect  Cynthia's  declaration 
that  she  had  recognised  her  husband  has  upon  the 
wretched  man.  Nor  can  we  at  all  accept  the  whis- 
pered mediation  of  Tharsalio's  wife  as  a  proper  substi- 
tute for  the  legitimate  conclusion  of  the  play,  an  eclair- 
cissement  between  husband  and  wife  and  a  restitution 
of  the  lady  to  her  old  posidon  in  her  husband's  con- 
fidence on  the  basis  of  his  belief  in  her  protestations. 
The  truth  seems  to  be  that  Chapman,  left  without  a 
clue  for  such  a  solution  in  the  source  he  used,  and 
possibly  pressed  for  time  in  preparing  his  drama  for  the 
stage,  simply  evaded  the  solution  altogether,  and  sub- 
stituted for  it  a  scene  of  broad  farce  where  a  foolish 
magistrate  of  the  well-known  Elizabethan  type  talks 
a  flood  of  nonsense  in  the  manner  of  Dogberry  and 
Verges.  Chapman  at  his  best  was  no  master  of  con- 
struction, but  none  of  his  dramas  exhibits  so  hopelessly 
an  inept  conclusion  as  The  Widow\  Tears. 

'  See  Die  trculose  fVitfwe  und  ihre  tVanderung  durch  die  Welt- 
litteratur,  Ed.  Griesbach,  Stuttgart,  1877. 


31ntroDttction  xxxi 

The  Ball,  licensed  in  1632,  was  printed  five  years 
after  Chapman's  death  as  the  joint  worlc  of  Chapman 
and  Shirley.  That  the  play  as  a  whole  belongs  to 
Shirley  '  there  cannot  be  the  slightest  doubt.  It  is,  how- 
ever, possible  that  one  or  two  of  the  passages  which 
the  licenser  forced  Shirley  to  omit  were  filled  up  by 
Chapman,  and  Freshwater' s  account  of  his  travels  in 
V,  i,  in  its  vigorous  prose  and  farcical  jumble  of  absurd- 
ities is  distinctly  reminiscent  of  Chapman's  style. 

The  foregoing  survey  of  Chapman's  comedies  has, 
perhaps,  made  it  possible  to  attempt  an  estimate  of  his 
gifts  and  limitations  as  a  comic  dramatist,  and  the  re- 
lation in  which  he  stood  to  his  contemporary  labourers 
in  this  field.  Perhaps  the  most  noticeable  defect  of 
Chapman  is  his  want  of  constructive  ability.  On 
the  whole  more  nearly  allied  to  Jonson  than  to  any 
other  Elizabethan  poet,  not  only  by  the  cu-cumstances 
of  his  life  but  by  his  scholarly  acquirements  and  the 
general  temper  of  his  mind,  he  quite  lacks  Jonson' s 
architectonic  genius.  With  only  one  or  two  exceptions 
Chapman's  plays  are  ill-planned  and  badly  propor- 
tioned ;  and  these  exceptions.  All  Fools,  Eastward 
Ho,  and,  perhaps.  May  Day,  are  all  cases  where,  so 
far  as  plot  and  structure  are  concerned.  Chapman 
was  working  upon  models  furnished  him  by  an  elder, 
or,  in  one  case,  by  a  contemporary  dramatist.  That 
this  defect  was  inherent  and  not  merely  due  to  lack 
of  acquaintance   with    the   requirements   of  the    stage 

'  See  Fleay,  Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama,  vol.  2,  pp.  238- 
239;  Ward,  English  Dramatic  Literature,  vol.  3,  p.  107;  Koeppel, 
Sluellen  und  Forschungen,  Heft  82,  sub  The  Ball. 


xxxii  iHntroDuction 

is  shown  by  the  appearance  of  the  grave  faults  that 
have  been  pointed  out  in  such  late  work  as  Monsieur 
Z)'  Olive  and  The  Widow\  Tears.  That  Chapman 
was  not  ignorant  of  stage  effect  is  shown  by  numerous 
scenes  of  high  comic  force  whose  effectiveness  could 
only  be  heightened  by  actual  representation.  But  he 
seems  from  the  beginning  to  have  lacked  the  ability  to 
plan  and  execute  a  play  as  a  well-proportioned  whole. 
Chapman,  it  must  further  be  confessed,  is  no  great 
master  of  characterisation.  He  seems  to  have  lacked 
almost  entirely  the  range  and  depth  of  human  sympa- 
thy which  enabled  men  such  as  Dekker  and  Hey  wood, 
certainly  his  inferiors  in  intellectual  ability,  to  create 
characters  that  still  retain  the  breath  of  life  with  which 
these  poets  endowed  them.  Chapman  is  too  often  in- 
clined to  crowd  his  stage  with  puppet-like  figures  only 
slightly  differentiated  from  each  other  and  quite  devoid 
of  life.  This  fault  is  particularly  noticeable  in  his  ear- 
lier work.  It  is  difficult  for  the  reader,  it  must  have 
been  quite  impossible  for  the  spectator,  to  keep  in  mind 
the  mob  of  gentlemen  who  crowd  the  boards  in  An 
Humorous  Daj'  s  Mirth  and  May  Day.  And  if  in  the 
latter  case  the  fault  was  originally  that  of  the  Italian  dra- 
matist whose  work  Chapman  is  adapting,  it  is  significant 
that  the  English  poet  has  rather  added  to  than  dimin- 
ished Piccolomini's  swollen  list  of  dramatis  personae. 
Under  the  influence  of  his  study  of  Latin  comedy  and 
guided,  perhaps,  by  the  example  of  Jonson,  Chapman 
came  in  time  to  learn  the  value  of  restraint  in  this  re- 
spect and  the  need  of  distinguishing  between  his  figures. 
He  is  most  generally  successful,  I  think,  when  working 


31ntroDuccion  xxxiii 

on  stock  types,  such  as  those  furnished  by  Latin  comedy, 
as  in  All  Fools,  and  in  such  "  humorous  "  figures  as 
the  swaggering  captain  in  May  Day,  the  jealous  hus- 
band in  All  Fools,  or  that  "  true  map  of  a  gull  "  who 
gives  his  name  to  Monsieur  Z)'  Olive.  But  he  is  not 
altogether  unsuccessful  in  the  sphere  of  romantic  com- 
edy ;  Clarence,  the  poet-lover,  and  his  mistress,  Eu- 
genia, in  Sir  Giles  Goosecap,  Vincentio  and  his  friend 
Strozza  in  The  Gentleman  Usher,  are  distinctly  con- 
ceived and  attractively  presented.  Margaret,  the  hero- 
ine of  the  latter  play,  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  girls 
outside  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  ;  and  the  audacity, 
ready  wit,  and  quenchless  good-humour  of  Tharsalio  in 
The  Widow^  s  Tears,  raise  him  distinctly  above  the 
stock  figure  of  the  impudent  gentleman  adventurer. 

The  general  impression  left  by  a  repeated  and  con- 
secutive reading  of  Chapman's  comedies  is  one  of  lively 
and  vigorous  comic  force.  This  is  due,  in  the  main, 
I  believe,  to  the  abundance  of  action  that  characterises 
these  plays.  With  the  possible  exception  of  Sir  Giles 
Goosecap,  the  action  of  Chapman's  comedies  calls 
rather  for  pruning  than  for  reenforcement ;  and  this  is 
the  more  notable  since  his  tragedies  are  as  a  rule 
very  deficient  in  action.  I  take  it  that  the  theory  of 
dramatic  composition  which  checked  Chapman's  hand 
in  the  composition  of  his  graver  works  was  cast  aside 
when  he  turned  to  comedy  ;  and  his  early  apprentice- 
ship to  Henslowe  must  have  taught  him  that  a  lively 
bustling  plot  with  plenty  of  amusing  incident  would 
cover  a  multitude  of  sins.  Accordingly  he  was  often 
careless  of  construction,  wasted  little  time  in  psycho- 


xxxiv  31ntroDuction 

logical  analysis  of  character,  and  as  a  rule  seldom  de- 
layed the  action  to  display  his  wit. 

It  is  quite  in  keeping  with  this  abundant  action  that 
Chapman's  humour  should  be  one  of  incident  and  situ- 
ation rather  than  of  character  and  dialogue.  It  ranges 
all  the  way  from  the  clownery  of  such  figures  as  Sir  Giles 
and  Pogio,  through  the  broad  farce  of  certain  scenes 
in  The  Blind  Beggar,  or  the  intoxication  of  Corteza, 
to  genuine  specimens  of  high  comedy  in  All  Fools 
and  The  Gefitleman  Usher.  Chapman  is,  I  think, 
specially  a  master  of  ludicrous  situation.  I  know  few 
scenes  in  any  literature  more  essentially  comic  in  the 
mere  situation  than  those  in  which  Valerio's  mock  re- 
pentance obtains  his  father's  feigned  forgiveness,  or 
Bassiolo's  gulled  importunity  wins  from  the  assumed 
prudery  of  Margaret  the  favour  of  a  letter  to  her  lover. 
It  is  in  scenes  like  these  that  Chapman's  comic  genius 
appears  at  its  highest.  We  feel  that  he  himself  per- 
ceives the  value  of  the  situation,  elaborates  it,  and  wrests 
from  it  all  of  comic  that  it  contains.  And  Chapman 
has  the  special  merit  in  his  comedy  of  keeping  the 
audience  always  in  touch  with  the  action.  He  makes 
little  or  no  use  of  the  element  of  surprise,  which  is  so 
prominent  a  feature  of  Fletcherian  and  later  comedy. 
No  matter  how  completely  the  characters  in  the  action 
may  be  gulled,  the  reader  always  comprehends  the  cause 
and  looks  forward  to  the  consequence,  and  so  obtains 
a  double  gust  from  the  situation. 

A  word  should  be  said  in  passing  of  Chapman's 
style  as  a  comic  dramatist.  Like  most  of  the  Eliza- 
bethans proper  he  is   ambidextrous   and  uses  prose  or 


31ntroDuction  xxxv 

verse  as  the  occasion  demands.  In  blank  verse  he  was, 
as  his  first  play  shows,  originally  a  student  of  Mar- 
lowe, but  he  soon  worked  out  a  style  of  his  own.  In 
tragedy  this  was  elaborate,  elevated,  sententious,  and 
at  times  turgid  and  obscure.  In  comedy  on  the  other 
hand  it  is,  to  quote  Swinburne's  happy  phrase,  "  limpid 
and  luminous  as  running  water,"  rising  at  times  to 
heights  of  impassioned  poetry,  and  sinking  easily  again 
to  familiar  and  fluent  dialogue.  No  poet  before 
Fletcher,  I  believe,  was  able  to  impart  to  blank  verse 
so  easy  and  conversational  a  tone. 

Chapman's  prose,  like  that  of  most  of  his  contempo- 
raries, was  strongly  coloured  by  the  influence  of  Lyly. 
This  is  particularly  noticeable  in  the  set  speeches  of 
All  Fools  and  Monsieur  U  Olive.  Where  Chapman 
escapes  from  this  influence  and  is  content  to  speak  like 
a  man  of  this  world,  his  prose  is  racy  and  vigorous, 
simpler,  I  think,  and  more  idiomatic  than  that  of  Jon- 
son,  more  forcible  and  effective  than  that  of  any  other 
of  his  contemporaries,  with  the  one  exception  of  Shake- 
speare. 

II 

The  main  source  of  All  Fools,  as  was  pointed  out 
by  Langbaine,  is  the  Heautontimorumenos  of  Terence, 
A  second  source  of  considerable  importance  in  the 
characterisation  and  final  solution  of  Chapman's  play 
has  recently  been  pointed  out  in  the  Adelphi  of  Ter- 
ence.' 

'  By  Miss  Woodbridge  in  The  Journal  of  Germanic  Philology, 
vol.  I,  p.  338   ssq. ;  and  independently  and  more  fully  in  a  paper 


xxxvi  3flntroDuction 

It  is  not  without  interest  to  note  that  in  the  very 
year  that  Chapman  composed  All  Fools  hr  Henslowe's 
company,  Ben  Jonson  wrote  The  Case  is  Altered, 
hke  Chapman's  play  a  contamination  of  two  Latin 
comedies,  in  this  case  the  Captivi  and  Aulularia  of 
Plautus.  Considering  the  close  personal  relations  that 
existed  between  Chapman  and  Jonson  at  this  time,  one 
is  almost  forced  to  believe  that  the  appearance  of  these 
plays  represents  a  conscious  attempt  on  the  part  of  the 
two  scholarly  dramatists  to  domesticate  Latin  comedy 
upon  the  Elizabethan  stage ;  and  the  fact  that  in  both 
cases  two  Latin  plays  were  combined  to  make  a  single 
English  one  goes  to  show  that  both  dramatists  consid- 
ered the  plot  and  incident  of  a  Latin  comedy  too  slight 
and  scanty  to  hold  the  attention  of  an  Elizabethan 
audience. 

It  is  no  injustice  to  the  fame  of  Jonson  to  say  that 
of  these  two  attempts  Chapman's  is  distinctly  the 
superior.  The  Case  is  Altered  adheres  almost  slavishly 
to  its  originals,  and  the  two  plots  are  rather  placed  in 
juxtaposition  than  blended  into  one  harmonious  whole. 
All  Fools,  on  the  other  hand,  seems  to  me  almost  a 
perfect  model  for  work  of  this  sort.  Chapman  has 
treated  his  originals  with  a  free  hand,  and  while  retain- 
ing the  main  structure  and  numerous  incidents  and 
even  at  times  translating  almost  directly  from  the  Latin, 
he  has  cut  away  and  added  at  discretion,  and  has 
wholly  modernised  the  spirit  of  the  play.  I  have 
pointed    out    in  the     "Notes  many    particular   instances 

read  before  the  English  Seminary,  at  Princeton,  by  C.  W.  Kennedy, 
in  1904. 


31ntroDuction  xxxvii 

where  Chapman  either  adheres  to  or  deviates  from  his 
originals.  Certain  changes  which  he  has  made  in  the 
dramatis  personae  and  their  effect  upon  the  general  tone 
of  the  play  are,  however,  well  worth  noting.  Bacchis, 
the  courtesan  of  the  Heautontimorumenos,  has  become 
Gratiana,  the  secret  wife  of  the  hero ;  Antiphila,  the 
daughter  of  Chremes,  who  had  been  exposed  as  an 
infant  and  by  mere  accident  restored  to  her  parents, 
is  represented  by  Bellanora,  who  has  never  left  her 
father's  house.  In  like  fashion  the  intriguing  slave, 
Syrus,  has  been  transformed  into  a  younger  brother  of 
the  hero,  a  quick-witted,  roguish  "clerk  of  Padua." 
With  these  changes  the  whole  atmosphere  of  the  New 
Comedy,  an  atmosphere  of  courtesans,  exposed  infants, 
and  rascally  slaves,  disappears,  and  the  play  becomes 
at  once  wholly  modern.  This  transformation  is  aided 
also  by  the  sub-plot  of  Cornelio's  jealousy,  apparently 
Chapman's  own  invention,  and  distinctly  Elizabethan 
rather  than  classical  in  spirit. 

Chapman's  skill  is  further  seen  in  his  omission  of 
the  "  self- torturing  "  motive  of  the  play  which  he  chose 
for  the  basis  of  his  plot  and  his  substitution  for  it  of 
the  strong  contrast  in  character  between  the  two  fa- 
thers, which  he  found  in  the  Adelphi.  The  whole 
intrigue  of  All  Fools  turns  upon  the  harsh  character 
of  Gostanzo,  who  corresponds  to  Demea  in  the 
Adelphi,  and  upon  his  son's  natural  unwillingness  to 
confess  to  him  his  secret  marriage  until  he  has  made 
sure  beforehand  of  forgiveness.  It  is  not  too  much, 
indeed,  to  say  that  the  characterisation  and  mutual  re- 
lations of  the  dramatis  personae  of  All  Fools  find  their 


xxxviii  31ntroDuction 

source  rather  in    the  Adelphi  than    in    the  Heauton- 
timorumenoi. 

In  one  respect,  indeed,  the  Adelphi  has  influenced 
the  structure  o'i  All  Fools  and,  perhaps,  not  altogether 
to  its  advantage.  Swinburne  has  noted  as  the  one 
slight  blemish  of  the  English  play  "  that  the  final  scene 
of  discovery  ...  is  somewhat  hurriedly  despatched, 
with  too  rapid  a  change  of  character  and  readjustment 
of  relations."  Inasmuch  as  Chapman  had  transformed 
the  courtesan  of  the  Heautontimorumenos  into  the  secret 
wife  of  All  Fools,  it  was  of  course  impossible  that  the 
solution  of  the  Latin  play,  in  which  Bacchis  is  dis- 
missed and  her  lover  consents  to  marry  a  neighbour's 
daughter,  should  be  retained.  For  this  solution  Chap- 
man has  substituted  that  of  the  Adelphi,  where  the 
stern  father  suddenly  becomes  mild,  consents  to  the 
marriage  of  his  elder  son  with  a  poor  girl,  and  allows 
the  younger  to  retain  his  mistress.  But  while  Terence 
has  carefully  motivated  this  change  of  front.  Chapman 
introduces  it  suddenly  and  without  warning.  It  is 
possible,  indeed,  to  explain  Gostanzo's  transformation 
in  the  last  scene  on  the  hypothesis  that  he  realises  that 
his  anger  is  fruitless  and  wisely  resolves  to  make  the 
best  of  what  is  after  all  not  so  bad  a  business.  Yet  even 
with  this  explanation  the  fact  remains  that  Gostanzo's 
change  of  mind  is  rather  dramatically  admissible  than 
psychologically  true.  ■ 

'  Another  objection  urged  by  Professor  Koeppel  {Siudlen  und 
ForscAungen,  1 897)  to  the  construction  of  yf//  Foo/s  seems  to  me  to 
lack  real  weight.  I  have  dealt  with  this  objection  in  a  note  on  the 
passage  (in,  i,  83-84). 


idtttrotjuction  xxxix 

After  all  it  is,  of  course,  idle  to  look  for  depth  of 
characterisation  and  psychological  truth  in  a  play  like 
All  Fools.  The  characters,  borrowed  directly  from 
Latin  comedy,  are  rather  types  than  distinct  and  well- 
rounded  individuals.  We  have  here  the  familiar  figures 
of  the  New  Comedy,  the  stern  father,  the  indulgent 
father,  the  riotous  son,  and  the  witty  intriguer  who  sets 
the  action  going.  It  is,  I  think,  greatly  to  Chapman's 
credit  that,  while  adopting  these  threadbare  types,  he 
has  contrived  to  make  them  so  real  and  freshly  enter- 
taining. And  he  has,  moreover,  succeeded  in  throw- 
ing about  these  stock  figures  and  this  old-world  intrigue 
a  mingled  atmosphere  of  Elizabethan  realism  and 
romance.  Valerie's  secret  marriage  and  Fortunio's 
secret  love  give  a  romantic  interest  to  All  Fools  which  ( 
is  quite  lacking  in  its  prototypes.  And  the  repeated 
touches  of  realism,  the  adventure  of  Valerio  with  the 
bailiifs,  his  vanity  in  his  courtly  accomplishments,  and 
the  final  scene  in  the  Half  Moon  Tavern,  with  its 
accompaniment  of  dice,  tobacco,  a  *'  noise  "  of  music, 
and  the  pledging  of  healths,  complete  the  transforma- 
tion of  the  play  of  Terence  into  a  modern  comedy  of 
intrigue  and  of  manners. 

The  Gentleman  Usher  presents  so  remarkable  a  con- 
trast to  All  Fools  as  to  give  us  a  striking  impression  of 
Chapman's  range  and  versatility  as  a  comic  dramatist. 
The  construction  is  far  more  loose  and  irregular,  the 
characterisation  more  individual  and  human,  the  poetry 
more  fervent  and  impassioned,  and  the  prevailing  interest 
is  shifted  from  a  series  of  amusing  intrigues  to  a  tender 
and  romantic   love-story.     Chapman's  women  are  as  a 


xl  31ntroUuction 

rule  not  particularly  attractive  figures  ;  the  young 
wives  of  All  Fools  are  little  more  than  puppets  ;  the 
widows  of  his  last  comedy  are,  to  put  it  mildly,  no 
better  than  they  should  be.  But  the  matron  and  the 
maid  in  The  Gentleman  Usher  —  Cynanche,  the  perfect 
helpmate,  and  Margaret,  the  merry,  modest,  and  devoted 
sweetheart  —  are  alone  sufficient  to  redeem  Chapman 
from  the  charge  of  having  been  consistently  cynical 
in  his  attitude  toward  women. 

No  source  has  yet  been  discovered  for  the  story  of 
The  Gentleman  Usher.  I  have  shown  elsewhere  that 
certain  characters  and  incidents  seem  to  have  been  taken 
over  from  Chapman's  earlier  play,  Sir  Giles  Goosecap.^ 
These,  however,  are  wholly  subordinate  and  do  not 
affect  the  main  story.  I  fancy  that  this  may  yet  be 
discovered  in  some  French  or  Italian  novel.  Chapman 
was  by  no  means  strong  in  invention,  and  I  am  in- 
clined to  believe  him  incapable  of  creating  a  story  so 
simple,  straightforward,  and  well-balanced  as  that  of 
Vincentio  and  Margaret.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the 
story  had  already  been  dramatised,  Chapman,  who  in 
Jll  Fools  and  May  Day  had  shown  himself  so  capable 
an  adapter,  would  hardly  have  floundered  and  stumbled 
through  two  whole  acts  before  getting  under  way. 

It  is  to  this  long  delay  in  starting  the  action  that  I 
am  inclined  to  attribute,  in  part  at  least,  the  strange 
neglect  which  has  overtaken  this  most  delightful  of 
Chapman's  comedies.  It  requires  no  little  patience  in- 
deed  to   push   resolutely   through   the    first  two  acts, 

'  The  Auihonhip  of  Sir  Gyles  Goosecafpe,  Modern  Philology, 
July,  1906. 


31ntroDuction  xli 

which  are  at  once  notably  deficient  in  the  central  in- 
terest and  filled  to  overflowing  with  incidental  matter, 
the  clowneries  of  Pogio,  the  pedantries  of  Sarpego, 
and  the  disgusting  farce  of  Corteza's  drunkenness  — 
to  say  nothing  of  the  various  masks  and  shows  which, 
however  diverting  they  may  have  been  to  a  contem- 
porary audience,  have,  in  the  lapse  of  time,  become 
stale  and  flat.  But  the  reader  who  has  the  courage  to 
go  on  will  reap  a  large  reward.  From  the  time  the 
action  is  properly  started  at  the  beginning  of  Act  iii, 
it  runs  along  swiftly  and  smoothly  with  sparkling  inter- 
change of  comedy  and  romance.  In  the  last  act,  in- 
deed, it  assumes  a  serious  and  almost  tragic  tone,  which 
at  the  very  close  of  the  play,  when  the  fortunes  of  the 
lovers  have  touched  the  nadir,  is  dissipated  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  wonder-working  physician  who  heals 
their  wounds  and  joins  their  hands.  The  cruel  father 
is  reconciled  to  the  match,  the  intriguing  enemy  is  ex- 
posed and  banished,  and  the  play  ends  as  a  romantic 
comedy  should  do  with  the  sound  of  wedding-bells. 
No  other  of  Chapman's  comedies  has,  I  think,  so 
well  worked  out  and  satisfactory  a  conclusion.  And 
this  is  in  large  measure  because  the  solution,  with  its 
miraculous  cure  of  Strozza,  and  its  deus  ex  machina  in 
the  person  of  Benivemus,  harmonises  admirably  with 
the  romantic  tone  of  the  play.  It  speaks  well  for 
Chapman's  judgement  and  discrimination  as  an  artist 
that  such  a  facile  and,  as  it  were,  supernatural  solution 
of  a  tangled  plot,  which  appears  nowhere  else  in  his 
work,  should  have  been  admitted  here  where  alone  it  is 
in  keeping. 


xHi  3IntroDuction 

As  is  eminently  fitting  in  a  romantic  comedy,  the 
characterisation  in  The  Gentleman  Usher  is  at  once 
more  individual  and  more  interesting  than  in  All  Fools. 
Chapman's  grasp  of  character  and  firmness  of  touch  is 
seen  even  in  such  minor  parts  as  those  of  Pogio,  Al- 
phonso,  Corteza,  and  Cynanche.  The  main  interest 
centres,  naturally,  in  the  figures  of  the  lovers,  their 
constant  friend,  Strozza,  and  their  gull  and  go-be- 
tween, Bassiolo.  Vincentio  is  slightly  but  surely 
drawn.  Without  any  attempt  at  elaborate  analysis 
Chapman  has  here  given  us  a  wholly  satisfactory  por- 
trait of  a  romantic  young  lover,  good-tempered,  high- 
spirited,  and  devoted  to  his  mistress.  Strozza,  too,  is 
a  distinctly  human  figure,  far  above  the  mere  stock 
confident  of  comedy.  Of  Margaret's  charm  I  have 
already  spoken,  but  it  is  hard  to  pass  over  in  silence  the 
qualities  that  go  to  constitute  that  charm,  the  modesty 
with  which  she  repels  the  advances  of  the  Duke,  the 
gaiety  with  which  she  befools  Bassiolo,  the  heart-broken 
sorrow  for  the  supposed  loss  of  her  lover,  and  the 
fine  unselfishness  with  which  she  rejects  her  lover's 
offer  to  wed  her  after  ♦•  her  beauty's  sacrifice."  Above 
all,  in  the  noble  passage  where  she  and  the  Prince 
exchange  vows  and  bind  themselves  in  a  marriage  cere- 
mony of  their  own  devising,  the  passionate  purity  of  her 
mind  banishes  from  the  scene  the  faintest  suspicion  of 
a  baser  motive.  One  trembles  to  think  how  such  a  situ- 
ation would  have  been  treated  by  Fletcher.  But  the 
heroine  of  Chapman's  play  is  more  nearly  akin  to  Juliet 
than  to  any  female  figure  that  Fletcher  was  ever  able  to 
conceive. 


3(lntroDuction  xliii 

The  character  of  Bassiolo  also  demands  a  word,  the 
more  so  because  Swinburne  has  passed  him  over  in  si- 
lence, and  Professor  Ward,  as  well  as  Professor  Koep- 
pel,  appears  to  regard  him  merely  as  an  unsuccessful 
imitation  of  Malvolio.  Such  a  judgement,  I  am  bound 
to  say,  seems  to  me  quite  unsatisfactory.  It  is  quite  pos- 
sible that  the  success  of  Malvolio  upon  the  stage  may 
have  suggested  to  Chapman,  writing  a  few  years  after 
the  first  performance  of  Twelfth  Night,  the  notion  of 
trying  his  hand  upon  the  figure  of  a  conceited  gentle- 
man usher.  But  the  similarity  between  the  two  figures 
lies  wholly  upon  the  surface.  Both  occupy  the  same 
position  in  the  world,  and  both  are  tricked  into  believ- 
ing that  their  merits  have  won  for  them  a  favour  which 
will  advance  them  above  this  rank.  Here,  however, 
the  likeness  ends.  At  heart  Malvolio  is  a  bad-tempered 
peacock,  Bassiolo  a  good-natured  goose.  There  is  not 
a  trace  in  Chapman's  figure  of  the  soured  Puritanism 
which  leads  Malvolio  to  interfere  in  the  revels  of  Sir 
Toby  and  his  friends,  nor  a  shadow  of  that  overween- 
ing self-love  which  makes  Olivia's  usher  so  easy  a  mark 
for  the  palpable  trickery  of  Maria.  On  the  contrary,  it 
requires  the  strongest  personal  effort  of  the  Prince  him- 
self, seconded  by  gifts  and  kind  embraces,  to  persuade 
Bassiolo  that  his  merits  have  indeed  exalted  him  to  be 
a  great  man's  favourite.  And  if  the  action  of  this  scene 
should  seem  impossible  to  us,  we  must  remember  that 
it  would  by  no  means  appear  so  in  an  age  which  was 
only  too  familiar  with  base  fellows  exalted  to  be  their 
sovereign's  favourites.  We  have  such  an  instance,  in 
fact,  in  this  play  itself,  and  Bassiolo  might  well  imag- 


xiiv  3f|ntroOuction 

ine  that  his  claims  to  be  the  Prince's  favourite  were  as 
good  as  those  of  Medici  to  be  Alphonso's  minion. 
Malvolio  is  something  too  seriously  conceived  to  be 
a  purely  comic  character  ;  he  is  sick  of  self-love  ;  the 
device  that  is  put  upon  him  only  stimulates  the  expres- 
sion of  his  swollen  self-conceit,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
play  he  breaks  from  the  laughing  throng  of  his  torment- 
ors with  a  bitter  cry  for  revenge.  Bassiolo,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  by  no  means  so  confident  of  his  good 
fortune.  At  the  approach  of  danger  he  is  more  than 
ready  to  desert  his  friend,  and  expresses  a  well-founded 
belief  that  he  has  been  gulled.  His  struggle  between 
greed  and  vanity  in  the  last  scene  of  the  fourth  act, 
his  reckless  bravado  in  the  fifth  when  he  has  once 
chosen  his  part,  his  outcry  against  the  wicked  Prince 
when  he  anticipates  punishment,  and  his  instant  volte- 
face  when  he  learns  that  Vincentio  is  reconciled  to  his 
father,  are  pure  emanations  of  the  comic  spirit.  Nor 
is  it  difficult  to  look  beyond  the  close  of  the  play 
and  see  Bassiolo  installed  as  the  efficient,  officious,  and 
wholly  spoiled  major-domo  in  the  household  of  Vin- 
centio and  Margaret. 

Finally,  as  All  Fools  looks  back  to  the  past.  The 
Gentleman  Usher  is  an  anticipation  of  the  fiiture  in 
comedy.  It  is  in  many  ways  a  forerunner  of  later 
Jacobean  comedy,  particularly  that  of  Fletcher.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  play  is  one  of  courtly  romance.  The 
plot,  turning  as  it  does  upon  a  prince's  love-affair,  — 
troubled  and  for  a  time  broken  off  by  the  passion  of  a 
monarch  for  his  son's  mistress,  —  is  a  common  theme 
with  Fletcher;  and  the  way  in  which  the  comic  relief  is 


31ntroDuction  xlv 

blended  with  the  romantic  plot  is  to  me  distinctly  more 
like  the  manner  of  Fletcher  than  like  that  of  earlier 
writers.  The  construction,  particularly  in  its  fondness 
for  reverses  and  surprise,  —  see  especially  Act  v,  —  is 
rather  romantic  than  classic  and  dimly  anticipates 
the  deft  craftsmanship  of  Fletcher  along  these  lines. 
The  characters  themselves,  the  prince  and  his  mistress, 
the  amorous  monarch,  the  villainous  favourite,  the  de- 
voted wife,  and  the  beldame,  Corteza,  would  fit  easily 
into  the  frame  of  more  than  one  of  Fletcher's  comedies. 
The  easy  gaiety  with  which  the  character  of  Bassiolo 
is  handled  brings  him  nearer  to  the  ♦♦  humorous  "  fig- 
ures of  Fletcher  than  those  of  Jonson  ;  and  Strozza, 
in  his  loyalty  to  his  friend,  his  scorn  of  the  intriguing 
courtier,  and  his  frank  outspokenness,  seems  to  me  a 
clear  prototype  of  the  honest  soldier  so  common  in 
Fletcher's  work.  None  of  the  peculiar  metrical  char- 
acteristics of  Fletcher  appear,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  in 
The  Gentleman  Usher ;  but  the  ease  and  fluency  with 
which  Chapman  employs  blank  verse  in  dialogue  in 
such  scenes  as  iii,  ii,  and  v,  i,  in  this  play,  is,  at  the 
least,  suggestive  of  Fletcher's  careless  and  colloquial 
mastery  of  this  form  of  verse. 

The  question  of  Chapman's  relation  to  Fletcher  has 
not  yet,  I  believe,  received  its  due  attention.  I  have 
no  wish  to  exaggerate  the  importance  of  this  rela- 
tion, or  to  make  Fletcher  a  disciple  of  Chapman.  But 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  later  writer  caught  more 
than  one  hint  from  his  predecessor,  and  to  believe  that 
a  comparative  study  of  their  work  would  show  that  in 
certain  plays.  Sir   Giles  Goosecap,  Monsieur  Z)'  Olive, 


xivi  ^Introouction 

and  especially  The  Gentleman  Usher,  Chapman  was 
the  first  to  strike  into  that  field  of  romantic  comedy 
which  is  now  so  peculiarly  associated  with  the  name 
of  Fletcher. 


TEXT 

All  Fooles  was  first  printed  in  quarto  in  1605  for  Thomas  Thorpe. 
Mr.  Sidney  Lee  informs  me  that  the  devices  of  this  edition  show 
the  printer  to  have  been  the  G.  Eld  who  four  years  later  set  up 
Shakespeare's  Sonnets  for  T.  T.  (the  same  Thomas  Thorpe). 
There  was  but  one  early  edition  of  All  Fooles,  for  the  variations  in 
different  copies  of  the  Quarto  of  1605  are  no  greater  than  one  expects 
to  find  in  Elizabethan  books  of  the  same  edition.  Thus  in  i,  i,  184, 
A  and  D  read  unusering  ,•  five  other  Qq,  unnurishing.  In  11,  i,  9, 
most  Qq  read  AJsol've ;  M,  and  a  copy  in  the  possession  of  T.  J. 
Wise,  resol-ve.  In  11,  i,  30,  A,  B,  D  read  -veale ;  M,  iveale.  In 
I,  i,  3,  the  Garrick  copy  in  the  British  Museum  reads  siraines ; 
A,  D,  M,  and  the  King's  copy  in  the  British  Museum,  steaines. 
See  also  footnote,  p.  8 1 .  For  the  significance  of  my  lettering  of 
the  Quartos,  see  the  third  paragraph  below.  One  point  which  might 
serve  to  distinguish  various  copies  of  this  Quarto  as  belonging  to  an 
earlier  or  later  state  of  the  impression  is  the  presence  or  absence 
of  the  parenthesis,  (  ),  before  the  last  word  of  the  Epilogue,  See 
note  ad  loc.  p.  139. 

The  first  reprint  of  this  comedy  appeared  in  the  Select  Collection 
of  Old  Plays  edited  by  Isaac  Reed  and  published  by  Dodsley  in  1780. 
It  was  next  reprinted  in  Walter  Scott's  Ancient  British  Drama, 
1 8 10.  J.  P.  Collier  included  it  in  his  Select  Collection  of  Old  Plays 
(a  new  edition  of  Dodsley),  printing  the  Dedication  (see  Ap- 
pendix) for  the  first  time  and  emending  the  text  in  various  places. 
A  professedly  exact  reprint  appeared  in  The  Comedies  and  Tragedies 
of  George  Chapman,  published  by  Pearson,  1873,  ^""^  edited,  as  the 
present  editor  is  informed  by  Pearson  &  Co.,  by  R.  H.  Shepherd. 
This  retained  the  old  spelling  and  punctuation,  but  is  marred  by 
several  omissions,  misprints,  etc.  Mr.  Shepherd  presented  a  mod- 
ernised text  in  The  fVorks  of  George  Chapman  —  Plays  ( Chatto  and 
Windus,  1874-75).  The  text  of  the  Mermaid  Edition  [George 
Chapman,  edited  by  W.  L.  Phelps,  1895  )  is  based  upon  the  reprint 
of  1873,  with  modernised  spelling  and  punctuation. 


xlviii  XBtXt 

The  present  edition  is  based  upon  the  editor's  transcript  of  a  copy 
of  the  Quarto  formerly  belonging  to  Drummond  of  Hawthornden  and 
now  in  the  Library  of  Edinburgh  University.  This  transcript  has 
been  collated  with  copies  in  the  Advocates'  Library  at  Edinburgh, 
the  British  Museum,  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum,  and  the 
Bodleian  Library.  The  result  of  this  collation  has  been  the  discovery 
of  numerous  minor  variations  in  spelling  and  punctuation  and  a  few 
corrections  made  while  the  edition  was  in  press.  These  are  noted  in 
the  variants.  The  original  spelling  has  been  retained,  though  the 
capitalisation  has  been  modernised,  and  the  use  of  italics  for  proper 
names  disregarded.  The  confusing  punctuation  of  the  original  text 
has  been  revised  throughout,  but  wherever  the  original  seemed  to 
indicate  a  different  meaning  from  that  adopted  by  the  editor,  it  has 
been  recorded  in  the  variants. 

A  few  obvious  misprints  of  the  Quarto  I  have  corrected  silently,  as 
custodie  for  Qq  cuffbdie,  in  iv,  334.  Other  corrections  are  indicated 
by  brackets,  [  ],  as  are  all  additions  to  the  original  stage-directions. 
In  the  footnotes  I  have  used  the  symbols,  Qq,  to  note  a  consensus 
of  the  Quartos,  A,  a  reading  of  the  copy  in  the  Advocates'  Library, 
D,  of  the  Drummond  Quarto,  B,  of  the  two  copies  in  the  British 
Museum,  M,  of  the  Malone  copy  in  the  Bodleian.  For  modern 
editions  Do  stands  for  the  Dodsley  of  1780,  Co  for  Collier's  edition, 
P  for  the  Pearson  reprint,  and  S  for  Shepherd's  modernised  edition. 
Changes  by  the  present  editor  are  denoted  by  "  Emend,  ed." 

In  the  Quartos  the  play  is  simply  divided  into  acts.  These  have 
been  subdivided  into  scenes.  In  designating  speakers  the  whole  name 
is  given  for  the  first  speech  in  each  scene,  an  abbreviation  thereafter. 
These  abbreviations  have  been  normalised  to  avoid  the  confusion  of 
the  Quarto. 


%i  fcoW 


SOURCES 

Langbaine,  An  Account  of  the  English  Dramatic  Poets,  1 691, 
long  ago  pointed  out  that  this  comedy  "  seems  to  be  built  in 
part  upon  the  same  Fabrick  with  Terence's  Heautontimorumenos.^'' 
Professor  Koeppel  once  more  called  attention  to  this  fact  in  his 
^luellen-Studien  zu  Jen  Dramen  George  Chapmans,  etc.  (Q^ellen  und 
Forichu7igen,  Heft  82,  1897).  Professor  Koeppel,  however,  did 
not  note  that  Chapman  had  also  made  use  of  another  play  by 
Terence,  the  Adelphi.  This  was  first  pointed  out  by  Miss  Wood- 
bridge  in  The  yournal  of  Germanic  Philology,  vol.  i,  pp.  338,  seq,, 
and  later,  but  quite  independently  and  more  fully,  in  a  paper  read 
at  Princeton  University  by  C.  W.  Kennedy,  English  Fellow. 
Mr.  Kennedy  showed  that  All  Fooles  is  as  regards  the  main  plot 
a  contaminatio  of  the  Heautontimorumenos  and  the  Adelphi.  The 
many  resemblances  in  characters,  situation,  and  even  speech  between 
All  Fooles  and  the  comedies  of  Terence  on  which  it  is  founded  are 
pointed  out  in  the  Notes  to  this  edition  of  Chapman's  play. 

The  sub-plot  relating  to  the  jealousy  of  Cornelio  is  thought  by 
Professor  Koeppel  to  have  been  suggested  by  the  Merry  JVi-ves  of 
Windsor  ;  but  the  only  resemblance  between  the  two  plays  is  in 
their  common  presentation  of  a  jealous  husband,  a  figure  peculiar 
neither  to  Shakespeare  nor  Chapman.  Stier  (  Chapman' s  All  Fooles, 
etc.,  Halle,  1904)  sees  certain  resemblances  to  Jonson's  Kitely. 
From  the  dragging  action  of  the  under-plot  the  present  editor  is 
inclined  to  believe  that  this  part  of  the  play  was  Chapman's  own 
invention. 


foolie; 


Comedy ,  Prefented  at  the  Black 
Fryers  J  <iJnd  lately  before 

his  Maieftie. 
Written  by  George  Chapmop, 


AT  LONDON, 

Trintedfor  Thomas  Thorpe. 
I    d  o  5« 


ACTORS 

GOSTANZO  j   j^^jgj^^^ 

Mar[c].  Antonio  ( 

Valerio,  Sonne  to  Gostanzo. 

FoRTUNio,  elder  sonne  to  Marc.  Antonio. 

Rynaldo,  the  younger. 

Dariotto  ( 

CoRNELio,  a  start-up  Gentleman. 

Curio,  a  Page. 

Kyte,  a  Scrivener. 

Fraunces  Pock,  a  Surgeon. 

[A  Drawer.] 

Gazetta,  wife  to  Cor[nelio]. 

Bellonora,  daughter  to  Gostanzo. 

Gratiana,  stolne  wife  to  Valerio. 


,  Courtiers. 
Claudio 


PROLOGUS 

The  fortune  of  a  stage  {like  Fortunes  selfe') 
Anwzeth  greatest  judgements :   and  none  knowes 
The  hidden  causes  of  those  strange  effects^ 
That  rise  from  this  Hell^  or  fall  from  this  Heaven. 

Who  can  shew  cause  why  your  wits  that^  in  ay  me 
At  higher  objects^  scorne  to  compose  playes^ 
{Though  we  are  sure  they  could^  would  they  vouch- 
safe it !  ) 
Should  {without  meanes  to  ma ke^  judge  better  farre 
Then  those  that  make ;   and  yet  yee  see  they  can  ; 
For  without  your  applause  wretched  is  he 
That  undertakes  the  stage.,  and  he's  more  blest 
That  with  your  glorious  favours  can  contest. 

TVho  can  shew  cause  why  th' ancient  comick  vaine 
Of  Eupolis  and  Cratinus  {now  revived., 
Subject  to  personall  application^ 
Should  be  exploded  by  some  bitter  splenes., 
Yet  merely  comicall  and  harmelesse  jestes 
( Though  nere  so  witty)  be  esteemed  but  toyes., 
If  voide  of  tF other  satyrismes  sauce  f 

IVho  can  shew  cause  why  quick  Venerian  jestes 
Should  sometimes  ravish.,  sometimes  fall  farre  short 
Of  the  just  length  and  pleasure  of  your  eares 
When  our  pure  dames  thinke  them  much  lesse  obscene 


15 


4  IBrologus 

Then  those  that  ivinne  your  panegyrick  splene  ? 

But  our  poore  doomes  {alas^  you  know  are  nothing ;   25 

To  your  inspired  censure  ever  we 

Must  needs  submit^  and  there' s  the  ynistery. 

Great  are  the  giftes  given  to  united  heades  ; 
To  gifts,  attyre^  to  fair  e  attyre^  the  stage 
Helps  much ^  for  if  our  other  audience  see  30 

You  on  the  stage  depart  before  we  end^ 
Our  xvits  goe  with  you  all^  and  we  are  fooles. 
So  Fortune  governes  in  these  stage  events 
That  merit  beares  least  sway  in  most  contents. 
Auriculas  asini  quis  non  habet  ?  35 

How  we  shall  then  appeare^  we  must  referre 
To  magicke  of  your  doomes.,  that  never  erre. 

27  mistery,  all  Qq  except  B.  P.  L.,  which  reads,  as  does  Co, 
misery. 


ai  fooleis 


Actus  primi  Sc^na  prima. 

[^  Street  in  Florence. '\ 

Enter  Rynaldo,  Fortunio,  Valeria. 

Rynaldo.   Can   one  selfe  cause,  in  subjects  so 
alike 
As  you  two  are,  produce  effect  so  unlike  ? 
One  like  the  turtle,  all  in  mournefuU  straines 
Wailing  his  fortunes,  th'other  like  the  larke. 
Mounting  the  sky,  in  shrill  and  cheerefull  notes 
Chaunting  his  joyes  aspir'd  ;   and  both  for  love. 
In  one,  love  rayseth  by  his  violent  heate 
Moyst  vapours  from  the  heart  into  the  eyes, 
From  v^^hence  they  drowne   his   brest   in  dayly 

showers ; 
In  th'other,  his  divided  power  infuseth 
Onely  a  temperate  and  most  kindly  warmth. 
That  gives  life  to  those  fruites  of  wit  and  vertue. 
Which  the  unkinde  hand  of  an  uncivile  father 
Had  almost  nipt  in  the  delightsome  blossome. 

3  straines.     All  Qq  except  that  in  Garrick  Collection  (B.  M.  — 
C.  13,  c.   10),  and  B.  P.  L.,  steaines. 


6  ^l  i?OOlC0  [Act  I. 

Fortunio.   O,  brother,  love  rewards  our  services    '5 
With  a  most  partiall  and  injurious  hand, 
If  you  consider  well  our  different  fortunes. 
Valerio  loves,  and  joyes  the  dame  he  loves  ; 
I  love,  and  never  can  enjoy  the  sight 
Of  her  I  love,  so  farre  from  conquering  20 

In  my  desires  assault,  that  I  can  come 
To  lay  no  battry  to  the  fort  I  seeke. 
All  passages  to  it  so  strongly  kept 
By  straite  guard  of  her  father. 

Ryn.  I  dare  sweare, 

If  just  desert  in  love  measur'd  reward,  25 

Your  fortune  should  exceed  Valerios  farre  ; 
For  I  am  witnes  (being  your  bedfellow) 
Both  to  the  dayly  and  the  nightly  service 
You  doe  unto  the  deity  of  love 
In  vowes,  sighes,  teares,  and  solitary  watches  ;      30 
He  never  serves  him  with  such  sacrifice. 
Yet  hath  his  bowe  and  shaftes  at  his  commaund. 
Loves  service  is  much  like  our  humorous  lords, 
Where  minions  carry  more  than  servitors  : 
The  bolde  and  carelesse  servant  still  obtaines;      35 
The  modest  and  respective  nothing  gaines. 
You  never  see  your  love  unlesse  in  dreames. 
He,  Hymen  puts  in  whole  possession. 
What  differrent  starres  raign'd  when  your  loves 

were  borne. 
He  forc't  to  weare  the  willow,  you  the  home  ?    4° 


Scene  I.]  ^l  ifOOlffit  7 

But,  brother,  are  you  not  asham'd  to  make 
Your  selfe  a  slave  to  the  base  Lord  of  love, 
Begot  of  Fancy  and  of  Beauty  borne  ? 
And  what  is  Beauty  ?   a  meere  quintessence. 
Whose  life  is  not  in  being,  but  in  seeming;  45 

And  therefore  is  not  to  all  eyes  the  same. 
But  like  a  cousoning  picture,  which  one  way 
Shewes  like  a  crowe,  another  like  a  swanne. 
And  upon  what  ground  is  this  Beauty  drawne  ? 
Upon  a  woman,  a  most  brittle  creature,  50 

And  would  to  God  (for  my  part)  that  were  all. 

For.    But  tell  me,  brother,  did  you  never  love  ? 

Ryn,   You  know  I  did  and  was  belov'd  againe, 
And  that  of  such  a  dame  as  all  men  deem'd 
Honour'd,  and  made  me  happy  in  her  favours.     SS 
Exceeding  faire  she  was  not ;  and  yet  faire 
In  that  she  never  studyed  to  be  fayrer 
Then   Nature  made  her ;  beauty  cost   her  no- 
thing. 
Her  vertues  were  so  rare,  they  would  have  made 
An  iEthyop  beautifull,  at  least  so  thought  60 

By  such  as  stood  aloofe,  and  did  observe  her 
With  credulous  eyes  ;  but  what  they  were  indeed 
He  spare  to  blaze,  because  I  lov'd  her  once  ; 
Onely  I  found  her  such,  as  for  her  sake 
I  vowe  eternall  warres  against  their  whole  sexe,  65 
Inconstant     shuttle-cocks,    loving     fooles     and 
jesters, 


8  ^l  ifOOlrSf  [Act  I. 

Men  rich  in  durt  and  tytles,  sooner  woone 
With  the  most  vile  then  the  most  vertuous, 
Found  true  to  none;  if  one  amongst  whole  hun- 
dreds 
Chance  to  be  chaste,  she  is  so  proude  withall,      70 
Wayward  and  rude,  that  one  of  unchaste  life 
Is  oftentimes  approv'd  a  worthier  wife : 
Undressed,  sluttish,  nasty,  to  their  husbands  ; 
Spung'd  up, adorn'd,and  painted  to  their  lovers; 
All  day  in   cesselesse  uprore   with    their   hous- 

holdes,  75 

If  all  the  night  their  husbands  have  not   pleas'd 

them  ; 
Like    hounds    most    kinde,  being    beaten    and 

abus'd. 
Like  wolves  most  cruell,  being  kindelyest  us'd. 
For.    Fye,  thou  prophan'st  the  deity  of  their 

sexe. 
Ryn.    Brother,  I  read  that  ^gipt  heretofore     80 
Had  temples  of  the  riches  [t]  frame  on  earth, 
Much  like  this  goodly  edifice  of  women  ; 
With  alablaster  pillers  were  those  temples 
Uphelde  and  beautified,  and  so  are  women  ; 
Most  curiously  glaz'd,  and  so  are  women  ;  85 

Cunningly  painted  too,  and  so  are  women ; 
In  out-side  wondrous  heavenly,  so  are  women  ; 
But  when  a  stranger  view'd  those  phanes  within, 

81  richest.    Emend.  Do  j   Qq,  riches. 


Scene  I]  ^l  ^fOOUflf  9 

In  stead  of  gods  and  goddesses  he  should  finde 
A  painted  fowle,  a  fury,  or  a  serpent ;  90 

And  such  celestiall  inner  parts  have  women. 
Valeria.  Rynaldo,  the  poore  foxe  that  lost  his 
tayle 
Perswaded  others  also  to  loose  theirs  : 
Thy  selfe,  for  one,  perhaps,  that  for  desert 
Or  some  defect  in  thy  attempts  refus'd  thee,        95 
Revil'st  the  whole  sexe,  beauty,  love,  and  all. 
I  tell  thee  Love  is  Natures  second  sonne. 
Causing  a  spring  of  vertues  where  he  shines  ; 
And  as  vsTithout  the  sunne,  the  worlds  great  eye, 
All  colours,  beauties,  both  of  Arte  and  Nature,  100 
Are  given  in  vaine  to  men,  so  without  Love 
All  beauties  bred  in  women  are  in  vaine. 
All  vertues  borne  in  men  lye  buried  ; 
For   Love  informes  them   as    the   sunne   doth 

colours. 
And  as  the  sunne,  reflecting  his  warme  beames  105 
Against  the  earth,  begets  all  fruites  and  flowers, 
So  Love,  fayre  shining  in  the  inward  man. 
Brings  foorth  in  him  the  honourable  fruites 
Of  valour,  wit,  vertue,  and  haughty  thoughts. 
Brave  resolution,  and  divine  discourse:  no 

O,  tis  the  Paradice,  the  Heaven  of  earth. 
And  didst  thou  know  the  comfort  of  two  hearts 
In  one  delicious  harmony  united, 
As  to  joy  one  joy,  and  thinke  both  one  thought, 


10  ^l  i?OOlf0  [Act  I. 

Live  both  one  life,  and  therein  double  life,  115 

To  see  their  soules  met  at  an  enter-view 

In  their  bright  eyes,  at  parle  in  their  lippes, 

Their  language  kisses,  and  t'observe  the  rest, 

Touches,  embraces,  and  each  circumstance 

Of  all  Loves  most  unmatched  ceremonies,  120 

Thou  wouldst  abhorre  thy  tongue  for  blasphemy. 

0  who  can  comprehend  how  sweet  Love  tastes. 
But  he  that  hath  been  present  at  his  feastes  ? 

Ryn.   Are  you  in  that  vaine  too,  Valerio  ? 
Twere  fitter  you  should  be  about  your  charge,    125 
How  plow  and  cart  goes  forward ;  I  have'knowne 
Your  joyes  were  all  imployde  in  husbandry, 
Your  study  was  how  many  loades  of  hay 
A  meadow  of  so  many  acres  yeelded. 
How  many  oxen  such  a  close  would  fat.  130 

And  is  your  rurall  service  now  converted 
From  Pan   to  Cupid,  and  from  beastes  to  wo- 
men ? 
O,  if  your  father  knew  this,  what  a  lecture 
Of  bitter  castigation  he  would  read  you  ! 

Val.   My  father  ?    why,  my  father  ?    does  he 

thinke  135 

To  rob  me  of  my  selfe  ?   I  hope  I  know 

1  am  a  gentleman,  though  his  covetous  humour 
And  education  hath  transformed  me  bayly, 
And  made  me  overseer  of  his  pastures  ; 

He  be  my  selfe  in  spight  of  husbandry.  140 


Scene!.]  01  ifOOlefi  1 1 

Enter  Gratiana. 
And  see,  bright  heaven,  here  comes  my  husban- 
dry, Ampiecti- 
Here  shall  my  cattle  graze,  here  nectar     tur  earn. 

drinke. 
Here  will  I  hedge  and  ditch,  here  hide  my  trea- 
sure. 
O  poore  Fortunio,  how  wouldst  thou  tryumph, 
If  thou  enjoy'dst  this  happines  with  my  sister  !  145 
For.   I  were  in  heaven   if  once   twere  come 

to  that. 
Ryn.  And   me  thinkes  tis  my  heaven   that    I 
am  past  it. 
And  should  the  wretched  Machevilian, 
The  covetous  knight,  your  father,  see  this  sight, 
Lusty  Valerio  ? 

Val.  Sfoote,  sir,  if  he  should,  150 

He  shall  perceive  ere  long  my  skill  extends 
Xo  something  more  then  sweaty  husbandry. 
Ryn.   He  beare  thee  witnes,  thou   canst  skill 
of  dice. 
Cards,  tennis,  wenching,  dauncing,  and  what  not ! 
And  this  is  something  more  then  husbandry  ;      15S 
Th'arte    knowne    in    ordinaries    and     tabacco 

shops, 
Trusted  in  tavernes  and  in  vaulting  houses, 
And  this  is  something  more  than  husbandry  ; 
Yet  all  this  while  thy  father  apprehends  thee 
For  the  most  tame  and  thriftie  groome  in  Europe.  160 


12  01  ifOOleflf  (Act  I. 

For.  Well,  he  hath  venter'd  on  a  mariage 
Would  quite  undoe  him,  did  his  father  know  it. 
Ryn.   Know  it  ?   alas,  sir,  where  can  he  be- 
stow 
This  poore  gentlewoman  he  hath  made  his  wife, 
But  his  inquisitive  father  will  heare  of  it,  165 

Who  like  the  dragon  to  th'esperean  fruite, 
Is  to  his  haunts  ?    Slight,  hence  !   the  olde  knight 
comes. 
Gostan-zo.    Rynaldo  ?  Intrat  Gostanxo. 

Ryn.  Whose  that  calles  ?    What,  Sir 

Gostanzo  ?  Omnes  aufugiunt. 

How  fares  your  knighthood,  sir  ? 

Gost.  Say,  who  was  that 

Shrunke  at  my   entry   here  ?     Was't  not  your 

brother?  170 

Ryn.    He  shrunke  not,  sir ;  his  busines  call'd 

him  hence. 
Gost.   And  was  it  not  my  sonne  that  went  out 

with  him  ? 
Ryn.  I  saw  not  him  ;   I  was  in  serious  speech 
About  a  secret  busines  with  my  brother. 

Gost.    Sure    twas   my  sonne;  what   made    he 
here  ?    I  sent  him  175 

About  affaires  to  be  dispacht  in  hast. 

Ryn.   Well,  sir,  lest  silence  breed  unjust  sus- 
pect, 

166  th^esperean.     So  Qq  ;   Co,  th'  Hesperean. 


♦scsNEi]  ^lifooletf  13 

He  tell  a  secret  I  am  sworne  to  keep, 
And  crave  your  honoured  assistance  in  it. 

Gost.   What  ist,  Rynaldo  ? 

Ryn.  This,  sir  ;  twas  your  sonne.  180 

Gost.    And  what  yong  gentlewoman  grac'st 
their  company  ? 

Ryn.  Thereon  depends  the  secret  I  must  utter : 
That  gentlewoman  hath  my  brother  maryed. 

Gost.   Maryed  ?    What  is  she  ? 

Ryn.  Faith,  sir,  a  gentlewoman  : 

But  her  unnurishing  dowry  must  be  tolde  185 

Out  of  her  beauty. 

Gost.  Is  it  true,  Rynaldo  ? 

And  does  your  father  understand  so  much  ? 

Ryn.   That  was   the  motion,   sir,  I  was  en- 
treating 
Your  Sonne  to  make  to  him,  because  I  know 
He  is  well  spoken,  and  may  much  prevaile  190 

In  satisfying  my  father,  who  much  loves  him 
Both  for  his  wisedome  and  his  husbandry. 

Gost.   Indeede,  he  's  one  can  tell  his  tale,  I  tell 
you; 
And  for  his  husbandry  — 

Ryn.  Osir,  had  you  heard 

What  thrifty  discipline  he  gave  my  brother  195 

For  making  choyce  without  my  father's  know- 
ledge 

185  unnurishing.     So  most  Qq  j    A  and  D,  B.  P.  L.,  unusering. 


14  ^li?OOlC0  [Act  I.* 

And   without  riches,  you  would  have  admyr'd 

him. 
Gost.   Nay,  nay,  I  know  him  well ;  but  what 

was  it  ? 
Ryn.  That  in  the  choyce  of  wives  men  must 

respect 
The  chiefe  wife,  riches  ;   that  in  every  course      200 
A  man's  chiefe  load-starre  should  shine  out  of 

riches  ; 
Love  nothing  hartely  in  this  world  but  riches  ; 
Cast  off  all  friends,  all  studies,  all  delights. 
All  honesty,  and  religion  for  riches  : 
And  many  such,  which  wisedome  sure  he  learn'd^os 
Of  his  experient  father  ;  yet  my  brother 
So  soothes  his  rash  affection,  and  presumes 
So  highly  on  my  fathers  gentle  nature. 
That  he  's  resolv'd  to  bring  her  home  to  him, 
And  like  enough  he  will. 

Gost.  And  like  enough       210 

Your  silly  father,  too,  will  put  it  up  ; 
An  honest  knight,  but  much  too  much  indulgent 
To  his  presuming  children. 

Ryn.  What  a  difference 

Doth  interpose  it  selfe  twixt  him  and  you  ! 
Had  your  sonne  us'd  you  thus  ! 

Gost.  My  sonne  ?  alaslzis 

I  hope  to  bring  him  up  in  other  fashion, 
Followes  my  husbandry,  sets  early  foote 


Scene  I]  ^l  ifOOiCg  15 

Into  the  world  ;  he  comes  not  at  the  citty, 
Nor  knowes  the  citty  artes  — 

Ryn.  But  dice  and  wenching. 

Aversus. 
Gost.   Acquaints  himselfe  with  no  delight  but 
getting,  220 

A  perfect  patterne  of  sobriety, 
Temperance,  and  husbandry  to  all  my  houshold. 
And  what's  his  company,  I  pray  ?   not  wenches. 
Ryn.   Wenches  ?   I  durst  be  sworne  he  never 
smelt 
A  wenches  breath  yet,  but  me  thinkes  twere  fit  225 
You  sought  him  out  a  wife. 

Gost.  A  wife,  Rynaldo  .? 

He  dares  not  lookee  a  woman  in  the  face. 

Ryn.   Sfoote,  holde  him  to  one ;    your  sonne 

such  a  sheep  ? 
Gost.   Tis  strange  in  earnest. 
Ryn.   Well,  sir,  though     for   my    thriftlesse 

brothers  sake  230 

I  little  care  how  my  wrong'd  father  takes  it, 
Yet  for  my  fathers  quiet,  if  your  selfe 
Would  joyne  hands  with  your  wi[s]e  and  to- 
ward Sonne, 
I  should  deserve  it  some  way. 

224-226  Wenchci  .    .    .    ivife.   This  speech  is  printed  as  2  11.  in 
Qq :    Wenchei  .    .    .   breath.     Yet  .    .    .    nvife. 

224  be  iivorne.    So  A  and  D.     Bl,  B2,  M,  hesworne. 
233  ivise.    Emend.  S.    Qq,  wife. 


1 6  Z\  ^00lt&  [Act  I. 

(rost.  Good  Rynaldo, 

I  love  you  and  your  father,  but  this  matter         235 
Is  not  for  me  to  deale  in,  and  tis  needlesse  ; 
You  say  your  brother  is  resolv'd,  presuming 
Your  father  will  allow  it. 

Eater  Marcantonio. 
Ryn.  See,  my  father! 

Since  you  are  resolute  not  to  move  him,  sir. 
In  any  case  conceale  the  secret  by  way  240 

Abscondit  se. 
Of  an  attonement,  let  me  pray  you  will. 
Gost.    Upon  mine  honour. 
^^«-  Thankes,  sir. 

Marc.  Antonio.    God    save    thee,   honourable 

Knight  Gostanzo. 
Gost.    Friend  Marc  Antonio,  welcome !   and 
I  thinke 
I  have  good  newes  to  welcome  you  withall.        24s 
Ryn.  \asidf\^.    He  cannot  holde. 
Marc.  What  newes,  I  pray  you,  sir  ? 

Gost.    You    have   a    forward,   valiant,  eldest 
Sonne, 
But  wherein  is  his  forwardnes  and  valour? 
Marc.   I  know  not  wherein  you  intend  him 

so. 
Gost.    Forward    before,  valiant    behinde,  his 
'^"ety,  ^5„ 

238-241  See  .  .  .  -win.     Qq  print   these   four  lines  as  three  : 
See  .  .  .  sir.  In  .  .  .  secret ;    By  .  .  .  ivill. 


Scene  I]  31  ifOOlfg  1 7 

That  he  hath  dar'd  before  your  due  consent 
To  take  a  wife. 

Marc.  A  wife,  sir  ?   what  is  she  ? 

Gost.    One  that  is  rich  enough  :    her  hayre 
pure  amber, 
Her  forehead  mother  of  pearle,  her  faire  eyes 
Two  wealthy  diamants,  her  lips  mines  of  rubies, 255 
Her  teeth  are  orient  pearle,  her  necke  pure  ivory. 
Marc.    Jest  not,  good   sir,  in   an  affayre   so 
serious ; 
I  love  my  sonne,  and  if  his  youth  reward  me 
With  his  contempt  of  my  consent  in  manage, 
Tis  to  be  fear'd  that  his  presumption  buildes  not  260 
Of  his  good  choyce,  that  will  beare  out  it  selfe, 
And  being  bad,  the  newes  is  worse  then  bad. 
Gost.    What  call  you   bad  ?    is  it  bad  to  be 

poore  ? 
Marc.    The  world  accounts  it  so;  but  if  my 
Sonne 
Have  in  her  birth  and  vertues  held  his  choice     265 
Without  disparagement,  the  fault  is  lesse. 

Gost.    Sits  the  winde  there  ?    Blowes  there  so 
calme  a  gale 
From  a  contemned  and  deserved  anger  ? 
Are  you  so  easie  to  be  disobay'd  ? 

Marc.   What  should  I  doe  ?   If  my  enamour'd 
Sonne  ^7° 

264  Sonne.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  soone. 


1 8  aiifOOlffif  [Act  I. 

Have  been  so  forward,  I  assure  my  selfe 

He  did  it  more  to  satisfie  his  love 

Then  to  incense  my  hate,  or  to  neglect  me. 

Gost.    A   passing   kinde  construction ;   suffer 
this. 
You  ope  him  doores  to  any  villany  ;  275 

He'le  dare  to  sell,  to  pawne,  runne  ever  ryot, 
Despise  your  love  in  all,  and  laugh  at  you. 
And  that  knights  competency  you  have  gotten 
With  care  and  labour,  he  with  lust  and  idlenesse 
Will  bring  into  the  stypend  of  a  begger,  280 

All  to  maintaine  a  wanton  whirly-gig. 
Worth  nothing  more  then  she  brings  on  her  back. 
Yet  all  your  wealth  too  little  for  that  back. 
By  heaven,  I  pitty  your  declining  state. 
For,  be  assur'd,  your  sonne  hath  set  his  foote     285 
In  the  right  path-way  to  consumption  : 
Up  to  the  heart  in  love;  and  for  that  love 
Nothing  can  be  too  deare  his  love  desires  : 
And  how  insatiate  and  unlymited 
Is  the  ambition  and  the  beggerly  pride  290 

Of  a  dame  hoysed  from  a  beggers  state 
To  a  state  competent  and  plentifull. 
You  can  not  be  so  simple  not  to  know. 

Marc.  I  must  confesse  the  mischiefe  ;  but,  alas. 
Where  is  in  me  the  power  of  remedy  ?  295 

Gost.  Where?    In  your  just  displeasure  !  Cast 
him  off. 


Scene  I.]  01  ^OOitii  19 

Receive  him  not,  let  him  endure  the  use 

Of  their  enforced  kindnesse  that  must  trust  him 

For  meate  and  money,  for  apparrell,  house, 

And  every  thing  belongs  to  that  estate,  300 

Which  he  must  learne  with  want  of  misery. 

Since  pleasure  and  a  full  estate  hath  blinded 

His  dissolute  desires. 

Marc.  What  should  I  doe  ? 

If  I  should  banish  him  my  house  and  sight, 
What  desperate  resolution  might  it  breed  305 

To  runne  into  the  warres,  and  there  to  live 
In  want  of  competencie,  and  perhaps 
Taste  th'  unrecoverable  losse  of  his  chiefe  limbes. 
Which  while  he  hath  in  peace,  at  home  with  me. 
May  with  his  spirit  ransome  his  estate  310 

From  any  losse  his  mariage  can  procure  ? 

Gost.  1st  true?  Ne,  let  him  runne  into  the  warre. 
And  lose  what  limbes  he  can  ;  better  one  branch 
Be  lopt  away  then   all   the  whole  tree  should 

perish  ; 
And  for  his  wants,  better  young  want  then  olde.3i5 
You  have  a  younger  sonne  at  Padoa, 
I  like  his  learning  well,  make  him  your  heire, 
And  let  your  other  walke ;  let  him  buy  wit 
Att's  owne  charge,  not  at's  fathers  ;  if  you  loose 

him. 
You  loose  no  more  then  that  was  lost  before ;    3*0 
If  you  recover  him,  you  finde  a  sonne. 


20  ^l  ifOOleg  [Act  I. 

Marc.   I  cannot  part  with  him. 

Goit.  If  it  be  so, 

And  that  your  love  to  him  be  so  extreame, 
In  needfull  daungers  ever  chuse  the  least ; 
If  he  should  be  in  minde  to  passe  the  seas,  3^5 

Your  Sonne  Rynaldo  (who  tolde  me  all  this) 
Will  tell  me  that,  and  so  we  shall  prevent  it ; 
If  by  no  Sterne  course  you  will  venture  that. 
Let  him  come  home  to  me  with  his  faire  wife; 
And  if  you  chaunce  to  see  him,  shake  him  up,   330 
As  if  your  wrath  were  hard  to  be  reflected. 
That  he  may  feare  hereafter  to  offend 
In  other  dissolute  courses.    At  my  house 
With  my  advice  and  my  sonnes  good  example, 
Who  shall  serve  as  a  glasse  for  him  to  see  335 

His  faults  and  mend  them  to  his  president, 
I  make  no  doubt  but  of  a  dissolut  sonne 
And  disobedient  to  send  him  home 
Both  dutifuU  and  thriftie. 

Marc.  O  Gostanzo ! 

Could  you  do  this,  you  should  preserve  your  selfe  34.0 
A  perfect  friend  of  mee,  and  mee  a  sonne. 

Gost.    Remember  you  your  part,  and  feare  not 
mine  ; 
Rate  him,  revile  him,  and  renounce  him  too. 
Speake,  can  you  doo't,  man  ? 

Marc.  He  do  all  I  can. 

Exit  Mar\c.  Antonio]  . 
322-323  If .   .  .  extreame.    Q  prints  as  one  line. 


i 


Scene  I.]  ^l  jfOOlt&  2 1 

Gost.    Ahlas,  good  man,  how  Nature  over- 345 
wayes  him  ! 

Rynaldo  comes  foorth. 

Ryn.    God  save  you,  sir. 

Gost.  Rynaldo,  all  the  newes 

You  told  mee  as  a  secret,  I  perceive 
Is  passing  common ;  for  your  father  knowes  it ; 
The  first  thing  he  related  was  the  marriage. 

Ryn.    And  was  extreamly  moov'd  ? 

Gost.  Beyond  all  measure; 350 

But  I  did  all  I  could  to  quench  his  furie. 
Told  him  how  easie  t'was  for  a  young  man 
To  runne  that  amorous  course,  and  though  his 

choyce 
Were  nothing  rich,  yet  shee  was  gentlie  borne, 
Well  quallified  and  beautifull ;  but  hee  still         355 
Was  quite  relentles,  and  would  needes  renounce 
him. 

Ryn.  My  brother  knowes  it  well,  and  is  resolvd 
To  trayle  a  pyke  in  field  rather  then  bide 
The  more  feard  push  of  my  vext  fathers  furie. 

Gost.    Indeed  that's   one   way;    but    are   no 
more  meanes  360 

Left  to  his  fine  wits  then  t'incence  his  father 
With  a  more  violent  rage,  and  to  redeeme 
A  great  offence  with  greater  ? 

Ryn.  So  I  told  him  ; 

But  to  a  desperat  minde  all  breath  is  lost. 


22  ^l  i?OOlr0  [Act  I. 

Gost.    Go  to,  let  him  be  wise   and  use  his 
friendes,  365 

Amongst  whom  He  be  formost  to  his  father. 
Without  this  desperate  errour  he  intends 
Joynd  to  the  other  He  not  doubt  to  make  him 
Easie  returne  into  his  fathers  favour, 
So  he  submit  himselfe,  as  duetie  bindes  him;      37° 
For  fathers  will  be  knowne  to  be  them  selves, 
And  often  when  their  angers  are  not  deepe 
Will  paint  an  outward  rage  upon  their  lookes. 

Ryn.   All  this  I  told  him,  sir  ;  but  what  sayes 
hee  ? 
"  I  know  my  father  will  not  be  reclaymde  ;         375 
Heele  thinke  that  if  he  wincke  at  this  offence, 
T'will  open  doores  to  any  villanie  ; 
He  dare  to  sell,  to  pawne,  and  run  all  ryot, 
To  laugh  at  all  his  patience,  and  consume 
All  he  hath  purchast  to  an  honord  purpose  3^° 

In  maintenance  of  a  wanton  whirligigg 
Worth  nothing  more  then  she  weares   on   her 
backe." 

Gost.  \aside\.   The    very  words    I    usd  t'in- 
cense  his  father.  — 
But,  good  Rinoldo,  let  him  be  advisde. 
How  would  his  father  grieve,  should  he  be  maynd  385 
Or  quite  miscarie  in  the  ruthles  warre  ? 

Ryn.   I  told  him  so  ;  but  better  farr  (sayd  hee) 

381  tvanton.    Emend.  Do  j  Qq,  wenton. 


Scene  I]  j^l  i?OOU0  23 

One  branch  should  utterly  be  lopt  away 
Then  the  whole  tree  of  all  his  race  should  perish ; 
And  for  his  wants  better  yong  want,  then  eld.    39° 

Gost.    [aside^.   By  heaven  the  same  words  still 
I  usde  t'  his  father. 
Why  comes  this  about  ?  —  Well,  good  Rinaldo, 
If  hee  dare  not  indure  his  fathers  lookes, 
Let  him  and  his  faire  wife  come  home  to  me 
Till  I  have  quallified  his  fathers  passion.  395 

He  shall  be  kindly  welcome  and  be  sure 
Of  all  the  intercession  I  can  use. 

Ryn.   I  thanke  you,  sir  ;  He  try  what  I  can  doe. 
Although  I  feare  me  I  shall  strive  in  vaine. 

Gost.   Well,  try  him,  try  him.   Exit  [  Gostanzo'] . 

Ryn.  Thanks,  sir,  so  I  will.400 

See  this  olde,  politique,  dissembling  knight. 
Now  he  perceives  my  father  so  affectionate, 
And  that  my  brother  may  hereafter  live 
By  him  and  his  with  equall  use  of  either, 
He  will  put  on  a  face  of  hollowe  friendship.      405 
But  this  will  proove  an  excellent  ground  to  sowe 
The  seede  of  mirth  amongst  us  ;   He  go  seeke 
Valerio  and  my  brother,  and  tell  them 
Such  newes  of  their  affaires  as  they  'le  admire. 

Exit  [^Rynaldo'\. 


24  ^l  ifOOlefl(  [Act  I. 

[SCiBNA    SeCUNDA. 

Before  the  House  of  Come  Ho. "^ 

Enter  Gaxetta,  Bellonora,  Gratiana. 

Gazetta.   How  happie  are  your  fortunes  above 
mine  ! 
Both   still   being   woode   and  courted  ;  still   so 

feeding 
On  the  delightes  of  love  that  still  you  finde 
An  appetite  to  more  ;  where  I  am  cloyde, 
And  being  bound  to  love  sportes,  care  not  for  them,     5 
Bellonora.   That    is  your    fault,  Gazetta ;  we 
have  loves 
And  wish  continuall  company  with  them 
In  honour'd  marriage  rites,  which  you  enjoy. 
But  seld  or  never  can  we  get  a  looke 
Of  those  we  love.     Fortunio,  my  deare  choycc,  10 
Dare  not  be  knowne  to  love  me,  nor  come  neere 
My  fathers  house,  where  I  as  in  a  prison 
Consume  my  lost  dayes  and  the  tedious  nights, 
My  father  guarding  me  for  one  I  hate. 
And   Gratiana  here,  my  brothers  love,  15 

Joyes  him  by  so  much  stelth  that  vehement  feare 
Drinkes  up  the  sweetnesse  of  their  stolne  de- 
lightes : 
Where  you  enjoye  a  husband  and  may  freely 
Performe  all  obsequies  you  desire  to  love. 


Scene  n]  gl  ifOOle0  ^S 

Gaz..   Indeede  I  have  a  husband^  and  his  love  lo 
Is  more  then  I  desire,  being  vainely  jelouse. 
Extreames,  though  contrarie,  have  the   like  ef- 
fects : 
Extreame  heate  mortifies  like  extreame  colde ; 
Extreame  love  breedes  sa[t]ietie  as  v^^ell 
As  extreame  hatred,  and  too  violent  rigour  15 

Tempts  chastetie  as  much  as  too  much  licence. 
There's   no    mans   eye    fixt  on  mee  but   doth 

pierce 
My  husbandes  soule.    If  any  aske  my  wel-fare. 
He  straight  doubts  treason  practis'd  to  his  bed, 
Fancies  but  to  himselfe  all  likelihoods  30 

Of  my  wrong  to  him,  and  layes  all  on  mee 
For  certaine  trueths  ;  yet    seekes  he  with  his 

best 
To  put  disguise  on  all  his  jelosie. 
Fearing,  perhaps,  least  it  may  teach  me  that 
Which  otherwise  I  should  not  dreame  upon.        35 
Yet  lives  he  still  abrode  at  great  expence, 
Turns  merely  gallant  from  his  farmers  state, 
Uses  all  games  and  recreations, 
Runnes  races  with  the  gallants  of  the  court, 
Feastes  them  at    home,  and   entertaines  them 

costly,  40 

And  then  upbraydes  mee  with  their  companie. 

23  Extreame  heate.    Emend.  Do  ;  Qq,  Extreames  heate. 

24  satietie.    Emend.  Do  ;    Qq,  sacietie. 


26  ;ai  ifOOlCflf  [Act  I. 

Enter  Cornelia. 
See,  see,  wee  shal  be  troubl'd  with  him  now. 
Cornelio.   Now  ladyes,    what    plots   have   we 
now  in  hand  ? 
They  say  when  onely  one  dame  is  alone, 
Shee  plots  some  mischiefe  ;   but  if  three  together,  45 
They  plot  three  hundred.  Wife,  the  ayre  is  sharpe, 
Y'ad  best  to  take  the  house  least  you  take  cold. 
Gaic.   Ahlas !  this  time  of  yeereyeeldes  no  such 

danger. 
Cor.  Goe    in,    I  say;  a  friend  of  yours    at- 
tends you. 
Ga-z..  Hee  is  of  your  bringing,  and  may  stay.     50 
Cor.    Nay,  stand  not  chopping  logicke ;  in,  I 

pray. 
Ga-z..    Ye  see,  gentlewomen,  what   my  hap- 
pines  is  ; 
These  humors  raigne  in  manage ;  humors,  hu- 
mors. Exit  [Gazetta],  he 
Gratiana.    Now  by  my  sooth,  I  am    followeth. 
no  fortune  teller. 
And  would  be  loth  to  proove  so,  yet  pronounce   55 
This  at  adventure  that  t'were  indecorum 
This  heffer  should  want  homes, 

^^11-  Fie  on  this  love  ! 

I  rather  wish  to  want  then  purchase  so. 

42  See,  see,  -wee.    Emend  S.    All  Qq  but  M,  wee  wee.    thai  be. 
Qq,  shalbe. 


Scene  II.]  ^l  i?OOle0  27 

Gra.    In  deede  such  love  is  like  a  smokie  fire 
In  a  cold  morning  ;  though  the  fire  be  cheerefull,  60 
Yet  is  the  smoke  so  sowre  and  combersome, 
T'were  better  lose  the  fire  then  finde  the  smoke. 
Such  an  attendant  then  as  smoke  to  fire 
Is  jelosie  to  love ;   better  want  both 
Then  have  both. 

Etiter  Valerio  and  Fortunio. 
Valeria.  Come,  Fortunio,  now  take  hold  65 

On  this  occasion,  as  my  selfe  on  this  : 
One  couple  more  would  make  a  barly-breake. 
[Gr<7.]    I  feare,  Valerio,  we  shall  breake  too 

soone ; 
Your  fathers  [jealous  espial]  will  displease  us. 
Val.    Well,  wench,  the  daye  will  come  his 

Argus  eyes  70 

Will  shut,  and  thou  shalt  open.    Sfoote,  I  thinke 
Dame  Natures  memorie  begins  to  fayle  her : 
If  I  write  but  my  name  in  mercers  bookes, 
I  am  as  sure  to  have  at  sixe  months  end 
A  rascole  at  my  elbow  with  his  mace  75 

As  I  am  sure  my  fathers  not  farre  hence ; 
My  father  yet  hath  ought  Dame  Nature  debt 
These  threescore  yeeres  and  ten,  yet  cals  not  on 

him  ; 

68  Gra.  Emend,  ed.    Qq,  For.     See  Notes,  p.  124. 

69  jealous  espial.    Emend,   ed.    Q(\,  lelosie   Spy-all.    S,  jealous 
spy-all.    See  Notes,  p.   121. 

69  displease.    Dr.  Bradley  suggests  'disperse.' 


28  ^l  ifOOlf 0  [Act  I. 

But  if  shee  turne  her  debt-booke  over  once, 
And  finding  him  her  debtor,  do  but  send  80 

Her  Sergeant,  John  Death,  to  arrest  his  body. 
Our  soules  shall  rest,  wench,  then,  and  the  free 

light 
Shall  triumph  in  our  faces,  where  now  night, 
In  imitation  of  my  fathers  frownes, 
Lowres  at  our  meeting. 

Enter  Rinald^ji]. 
See  where  the  scholler  comes.  85 
Rynaldo.    Downe  on  your  knees,  poore  lovers, 

reverence  learning. 
Fortunio.    I  pray  thee,  why,  Rinaldo  ? 
Ryn.  Marke  what  cause 

Flowes  from  my  depth  of  knowledge  to  your 

loves. 
To  make  you  kneele  and  blesse  me  while  you 
live. 
Val.   I  pray  thee,  good  scholard,  give  us  cause.  90 
Ryn.  Marice  then,  erect  your  eares :  you  know 
what  horror 
Would  flye    on    your  love    from  your  fathers 

frownes, 
If  he  should  know  it.    And  your  sister  here, 
(My  brothers  sweete  hart)  knowes  as  well  what 
rage 

90  scholard.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  Scholards. 
94  as  ivell.     (^q,  aswell. 


sctNE  II.]  ai  ifoolesf  29 

Would  sease  his  powers  for  her,  if  he  should 

knowe  95 

My  brother  woo'd  her,  or  that  she  lov'd  him. 
Is  not  this  true  ?    Speake  all. 

Omnes.  All  this  is  true. 

Ryn.    It  is  as  true   that  now  you  meete  by 
stelth 
In  depth  of  midnight,  kissing  out  at  grates, 
Clime  over  walles.    And  all  this  He  reforme.      loo 

Val.   By  logicke  ? 

Ryn,  Well,  sir,  you  shall  have  all  meanes 
To  live  in  one  house,  eate  and  drinke  together, 
Meete  and  kisse  your  fils. 

Val.  AH  this  by  learning  ? 

Ryn.  I,  and  your  frowning  father  know  all 
this. 

Val.  I,  marry,  small  learning  may  prove  that.  105 

Ryn.   Nay,  he  shall  know  it,  and  desire  it  too. 
Welcome  my  brother  to  him  and  your  wife. 
Entreating  both  to  come  and  dwell  with  him. 
Is  not  this  strange  ? 

For.  I,  too  strange  to  be  true. 

Ryn.  Tis  in  this  head  shall  worke  it ;  there- 
fore, heare :  no 
Brother,  this  lady  you  must  call  your  wife. 
For  I  have  tolde  her  sweet  harts  father  here 
That  she  is  your  wife ;  and  because  my  father 
(Who  now  beleeves  it)  must  be  quieted 


30  ^l  ifOOlffif  [Act  I. 

Before  you  see  him,  you  must  live  a  while  "S 

As  husband  to  her  in  his  fathers  house. 
Valerio,  here  's  a  simple  meane  for  you 
To  lye  at  racke  and  manger  with  your  wedlocke; 
And,  brother,  for  your  selfe  to  meete  as  freely 
With  this  your  long  desir'd  and  barred  love.        i^o 

For.  You  make  us  wonder. 

Ryn.  Peace,  be  ruld  by  mee, 

And  you  shall  see  to  what  a  perfect  shape 
lie  bring  this  rude  plott,  which  blind  Chaunce 

(the  ape 
Of  counsaile  and  advice)  hath  brought  foorth 

blind. 
Valerio,  can  your  heat  of  love  forbeare  »^S 

Before  your  father,  and  allow  my  brother 
To  use  some  kindnes  to  your  wife  before  him  ? 

Val.   I,  before  him  I  do  not  greatlie  care, 
Nor  anie  where  in  deed;   my  sister  heere 
Shall  be  my  spie ;  if  shee  will  wrong  her  selfe,  130 
And  give  her  right  to  my  wife,  I  am  pleasd. 

For.   My  dearest  life,  I  know,  will  never  feare 
Anie  such  will  or  thought  in  all  my  powers. 
When  I  court  her  then,  thinke  I  thinke  tis  thee. 
When  I  embrace  her,  hold  thee  in  mine  armes.  135 
Come,  let  us  practise  gainst  wee  see  your  father; 

Val.  Soft,  sir,  I  hope  you  need  not  do  it  yet. 
Let  mee  take  this  time. 

Ryn.  Come,  you  must  not  touch  her. 


Scene  II.]  ^l  i?OOle0  3^ 

Val.   No,  not  before  my  father  ! 

Ryn.  No,  nor  now, 

Because  you  are  so  soone  to  practise  it,  140 

For  I  must  bring  them  to  him  presentlie. 
Take  her,  Fortunio  ;  goe  hence  man  and  wife. 
Wee  will  attend  you  rarely  with  fixt  faces. 
Valerio,  keep  your  countenaunce  and  con  [ferme] 
Your  father  in  your  forged  sheepishnes,  H5 

Who  thinks  thou  dar'st  not  looke  upon  a  wench. 
Nor  knowest  at  which  end  to  begin  to  kisse  her. 

Exeunt. 

Finis  Actus  Primi. 

i-^^  father!  Emend,  ed.    Qq,  Father.? 

144  conferme    Emend,  ed.      Qq,  conseave.      P.  A.  Daniel  sug- 
gests 'conserve.'      See  Notes,  p.   122. 
Primi.    Qq,  Prima. 


Actus  secundi  Sc^ena  prima. 

[J  Street  i»  Florence ,  before  the  House  of  Gostanzo.'] 

Gostanzo,  Marcantonio. 

Gostanzo.   It  is  your  owne  too  simple  lenitie 
And  doting  indulgence  showne  to  him  still 
That  thus  hath  taught  your  sonne  to  be  no  sonne ; 
As  you  have  us'd  him,  therefore,   so  you   have 

him. 
Durst  my  sonne  thus  turne  rebell  to  his  dutie,       s 
Steale  up  a  match  unshuting  his  estate 
Without  all  knowledge  of  or  friend  or  father, 
And,  to  make  that  good  with  a  worse  offence. 
Resolve  to  run  beyond  sea  to  the  warres  ? 
Durst  my  sonne  serve  me  thus  ?    Well,  I   have 

stayd  him,  lo 

Though  much  against  my  disposition. 
And  this  howre  I  have  set  for  his  repayre 
With  his  young  mistresse  and  concealed  wife, 
And  in  my  house  here  they  shall  sojourne  both 
Till  your  blacke  angers  storme  be  over-blowne.   15 
Marc.  Antonio.   My  angers  storme  ?   Ah,  poore 

Fortunio, 
One  gentle  word  from  thee  would  soone  resolve 
The  storme  of  my  rage  to  a  showre  of  teares. 

9  Reiol-ve.    Most  Qq,  Adsolve.    M  and  a  copy  belonging  to  T  J. 
Wise  correct. 


sctNE  I]  ai  ifoole0  33 

Gost.  In  that  vaine  still?   Well,  Marcantonio, 
Our  olde  acquaintance  and  long  neighbourhood   20 
Ties  my  affection  to  you  and  the  good 
Of  your  whole  house;  in  kinde  regard  whereof 
I  have  advisde  you  for  your  credite  sake, 
And  for  the  tender  welfare  of  your  sonne, 
To  frowne  on  him  a  little;  if  you  do  not,  aj 

But  at  first  parle  take  him  to  your  favour, 
I  protest  utterly  to  renownce  all  care 
Of  you  and  yours  and  all  your  amities. 
They  say  hee  's  wretched  that  out  of  himselfe 
Cannot  draw  counsell  to  his  propper  weale,  30 

But  hee  's  thrice  wretched  that  has  neither  coun- 
sell 
Within  himselfe,  nor  apprehension 
Of  counsaile  for  his  owne  good  from  another. 

Marc.  Well,  I  will  arme  my  selfe  against  this 
weaknes 
The  best  I  can ;  I  long  to  see  this  Hellene  35 

That  hath  enchaunted  my  young  Paris  thus, 
And  's  like  to  set  all  our  poore  Troye  on  fire. 
Enter  Valeria  with  a  Page. 

Gost.   Here  comes  my  sonne  ;  withdraw,  take 
up  your  stand  ; 
You  shall  heare  odds  betwixt  your  sonne  and  mine. 
Marc.  ^Jntofiio]  retyres  himselfe. 

30  iveale.  So  M.  Most  Qq,  veale. 
37  Troye.  Emend.  Do.  Qq,  Trope. 
Marc.  \_Antonio\,  etc.    In  Qq  this  direction  stands  after  1.  37. 


4° 


34  01  i?00leS  [Act  II. 

Valeria.   Tell  him  I  can  not  doo  't ;   shall  I  be 
made 
A  foolish  novice,  my  purse  set  a  broch 
By  everie  cheating  come  you  seaven,  to  lend 
My  money  and  be  laught  at  ?   Tell  him  plaine 
I  professe  husbandrie,  and  will  not  play 
The  prodigall  like  him  gainst  my  profession.        45 
Gost.    [aside  to  Marc.^ .    Here  's  a  sonne. 
Marc,  [aside  to  Gost.'] .  An  admirable 

sparke  ! 
Page.   Well,  sir,  He  tell  him  so.       Exit  Page. 
Val.  Sfoote,  let  him  lead 

A  better  husbands  life  and  live  not  idlely. 
Spending    his    time,   his    coyne,  and    selfe    on 
wenches. 
Gost.   Why,  what  's  the  matter,  sonne  ?  50 

Val.   Cry  mercie,  sir  ;  why,  there  comes  mes- 
sengers 
From  this  and  that  brave  gallant,  and  such  gal- 
lants 
As  I  protest  I  saw  but  through  a  grate. 
Gost.  And  what 's  this  message  ? 
Val.  Faith,  sir,  hee's  disappoynted 

Of  payments,  and  disfurnisht  of  meanes  present ;   55 
If  I  would  do  him  the  kind  office  therefore 
To  trust  him   but  some  seven-night  with   the 

keeping 
Of  fourtie  crownes  for  mee,  hee  deepely  sweares, 


Scene  I]  ^l  jfOOltS  35 

As  hee  's  a  gentleman,  to  discharge  his  trust ; 
And  that  I  shall  eternally  endeare  him  60 

To  my  wisht  service  he  protestes  and  contestes. 
Gost.   Good  words,  Valerio ;  but  thou  art  too 
wise 
To  be  deceiv'd  by  breath  ;   He  turne  thee  loose 
To  the  most  cunning  cheater  of  them  all. 

Fal.   Sfoote,  hee  's    not  ashamde   besides  to 
charge  mee  65 

With  a  late  promise  ;   I  must  yeeld,  in  deed, 
I  did  (to  shift  him  with  some  contentment) 
Make  such  a  frivall  promise. 

Gost.  I,  well  done ; 

Promises  are  no  fetters  ;  with  that  tongue 
Thy  promise  past,  unpromise  it  againe.  7° 

Wherefore  has  man  a  tongue,  of  powre  to  speake. 
But  to  speake  still  to  his  owne  private  purpose  ? 
Beastes   utter   but   one   sound  ;   but   men   have 

change 
Of  speach  and  reason,  even   by  Nature  given 

them. 
Now  to  say  one  thing  and  an  other  now,  75 

As  best  may  serve  their  profitable  endes. 

Marc.    \aside\ .    Ber-ladie,  sound  instructions 

to  a  Sonne  ! 
Fal.  Nay,  sir,  he  makes  his  claime  by  debt  of 

friendship. 
Gost.  Tush,    friendship's  but  a  terme,  boy; 
the  fond  world 


36  01  ifOOlffl!  [Act  n. 

Like  to  a  doting  mother  glases  over  80 

Her  childrens  imperfections  with  fine  tearmes; 
What   she    calls    frindship  and     true    humane 

kindnes 
Is  onely  want  of  true  experience : 
Honestie  is  but  a  defect  of  witt, 
Respect  but  meere  rusticitie  and  clownerie.  85 

Marc.  \aside\.    Better  and  better  !    Soft,  here 
comes  my  sonne. 
Enter  Fortunioriy  Rinaldo,  and  Gratiana. 
Rynaldo  \jiside'\ .   Fortunio,  keepe  your  coun- 
tenance.   See,  sir,  here 
The   poore   young  married   couple,  which  you 

pleasd 
To  send  for  to  your  house. 

Gost.  Fortunio,  welcome. 

And  in  that  welcome  I  imploy  your  wives,  90 

Who  I  am  sure  you  count  your  second  selfe. 

He  kisses  her. 
Fortunio.    Sir,  your  right  noble  favours  do  ex- 
ceede 
All  powre  of  worthy  gratitude  by  words. 
That  in  your  care  supplie  my  fathers  place. 

Gost.    Fortunio,  I  cannot  chuse  but  love  you,  95 
Being  sonne  to  him  who  long  time  I  have  lov'd  ; 
From  whose  just  anger  my  house  shall  protect  you 
Till  I  have  made  a  calme  way  to  your  meetings. 

86    Better  .  .  .  Sonne.    Q  prints  as  two  lines  :  Better  .  .  .  better. 
Soft  .  .  .  Sonne. 


Scene  I]  ^l  j^OOU^  37 

For.    I  little  thought,  sir,  that  my  fathers  love 
Would  take  so  ill  so  sleight  a  fault  as  this.         loo 

Gost,    Call  you  it  sleight  ?    Nay,  though  his 
spirit  take  it 
In  higher  manner  then  for  your  lov'd  sake 
I  would  have  wisht  him,  yet  I  make  a  doubt, 
Had  my  sonne  done  the  like,  if  my  affection 
Would  not   have  turnd  to  more   spleene  then 

your  fathers ;  105 

And  yet  I  quallifie  him  all  I  can, 
And  doubt  not  but  that  time  and  my  perswasion 
Will  worke  out  your  excuse,  since  youth  and 

love 
Were  th'unresisted  orgaines  to  seduce  you  ; 
But  you  must  give  him  leave,  for  fathers  must  no 
Be  wonne  by  penitence  and  submission. 
And  not  by  force  or  opposition. 

For.    Ahlas,  sir,  what  advise  you  mee  to  doe  ? 
I  know  my  father  to  be  highly  moov'd, 
And  am  not  able  to  endure  the  breath  ns 

Of  his  exprest  displeasure,  whose  bote  flames 
I  thinke  my  absence  soonest  would  havequencht. 

Gost.    True,  sir,  as  fire  with  oyle,  or  else  like 
them 
That   quench   the  fire  with  pulling  downe  the 

house. 
You  shall  remaine  here  in  my  house  conceal'd  120 

109  orgaifies.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  organies. 


38  ;ai  ifOOleSf  [Act  II. 

Till  I  have  wonne  your  father  to  conceive 
Kinder  opinion  of  your  oversight. 
Valerio,  entertaine  Fortunio 
And  his  faire  wife,  and  give  them  conduct  in. 
Val.    Y'  are  welcome,  sir. 

Gost.  What,  sirha,  is  that  all  ?  125 

No  entertainment  to  the  gentlewoman  ? 

Val.    Forsooth,  y'  are  welcome  by  my  fathers 

leave. 
Gost.    What,  no  more  complement  ?     Kisse 
her,  you  sheepes-head. 
Why,  when  ?    Go,  go,  sir,  call  your  sister  hither. 

Exit  Fa/\_erio] . 
Ladie,  youle  pardon  our  grosse  bringing  up  ?       130 
Wee  dwell  farre  ofFfrom  court  you  may  perceive : 
The  sight  of  such  a  blazing  starre  as  you 
Dazles  my  rude  sonnes  witts. 

Gratiana.  Not  so,  good  sir, 

The  better  husband  the  more  courtlier  ever. 
Ryn.    In  deed  a  courtier  makes  his  lipps  go 
farre,  135 

As  he  doth  all  things  else. 

Enter  Velerio,   ^and'\  Bell  \_onora\ . 
Gost.  Daughter,  recive 

This  gentlewoman  home,  and  use  her  kindly. 

Sbe  kisses  her. 

128  Jf  hat   .    .    .  sheepes-head.    Qq  as  two  11.  :   What  .  .  .  com- 
plement ?    Kisse  .   .  .  sheepes-head. 


Scene  I]  ^l  ^00it&  39 

Bellonora.  My  father  bids  you  kindly  welcome, 

lady, 
And  therefore  you  must  needes  come  well  to  mee. 
Gra.    Thanke  you,  for-soth. 
Gost.  Goe,  dame,  conduct-am  in.  140 

Exeunt   Rinaldo,    Fortu?iio,    Bell\_onora'^ , 
Gra ^tiana]^ . 
Ah,  errant   sheepes-head,  hast  thou   liv'd  thus 

long 
And  dar'st  not  looke  a  woman  in  the  face  ? 
Though  I  desire  especially  to  see 
My  Sonne  a  husband,  shall  I  therefore  have  him 
Turne  absolute   cullion  ?     Lets   see,  kisse    thy 

hand.  145 

Thou  kisse  thy  hand  ?  thou  wip'st  thy  mouth, 

by  th'  masse. 
Fie    on   thee,   clowne !    They   say   the  world's 

growne  finer. 
But  I  for  my  part  never  saw  young  men 
Worse  fashin'd  and  brought  up  then  now  adayes. 
Sfoote,  when  my  selfe  was  young,  was  I  not  kept  150 
As  farre  from  court  as  you  ?    I  thinke  I  was  ; 
And  yet  my  father  on  a  time  invited 
The  Dutchesse  of  his  house  j   I,  beeing  then 
About  some  five  and  twentie  yeares  of  age. 
Was  thought  the  onelie  man  to  entertaine  her;  155 
I  had  my  conge  —  plant  myselfe  of  one  legg, 

148  young  men.    Qq  print  as  one  word. 


40  01  ifOOlefif  [Act  n. 

Draw  backe  the  tother  with  a  deepe  fetcht  honor, 

Then  with  a  bell  regard  advant  mine  eye 

With  boldnes  on  her  verie  visnomie,  — 

Your  dauncers  all  were  counterfets  to  mee  ;        i6o 

And  for  discourse  in  my  faire  mistresse  presence, 

I  did  not,  as  you  barraine  gallants  doe. 

Fill  my  discourses  up  drinking  tobacco  j 

But  on  the  present  furnisht  ever  more 

With  tales  and  practisde  speeches ;  as  some  times,  165 

"  What  ist  a  clocke  ?    What  stuff's  this  petti- 

coate  ? 
What  cost  the  making  ?    What  the  frindge  and  all  ? 
And  what  she  had  under  her  petticoate  ?  " 
And  such  like  wittie  complements;  and  for  need, 
I  could  have  written  as  good  prose  and  verse      170 
As  the  most  beggerlie  poet  of  am  all, 
Either  accrostique,  Exord'ion^ 
Epithalamions^  Satyres^  Epigrams^ 
Sonnets  in  doozens^  or  your  ^uatorzaines 
In  any  Rime^  Masculine^  Feminine^  i-j^ 

Or  Sdruciolla^  or  cooplets^  Blancke  Verse  ; 
Y'are  but  bench-whistlers  now  a  dayes  to  them 
That  were  in  our  times.    Well,  about  your  hus- 

bandrie ; 
Go,  for,  i'fayth,  th'art  fit  for  nothing  else. 

Exit  Fal  \erio'\ ,  prodit  Mar  [r.  Antonio'\ . 

174   S^uator-zainei.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  Quatorzanies. 

176  SdrucioUa.    Emend,  ed.    Q,  SdrncioUa;    Co,  Sdruciolo. 


Marc.   Ber-Ladie  !  you  have  plaide  the  cour- 
tier rarelie.  180 
Gost.   But  did  you  ever  see  so  blanck  a  foole, 
When  he  should  kisse  a  wench,  as  my  sonne  is  ? 

Marc.   Ahlas,  tis  but  a  little  bashfulnes; 
You  let  him  keepe  no  companie,  nor  allovt^  him 
Monie  to  spend  at  fence  and  dauncing-scholes ;  185 
Y'  are  too  seveere,  y'  faith. 

Gost.  And  you  too  supple. 

Well,  sir,  for  your  sake  I  have  staide  your  sonne 
From  flying  to  the  vi^arres  ;  now^  see  you  rate  him 
To  staie  him  yet  from  more  expencefull  courses. 
Wherein  your  lenitie  will  encourage  him.  190 

Marc.   Let  me  alone  ;   I  thank  you  for  this 
kindnes.  Exeunt. 

Enter  Valeria  and  Rinaldo. 
Ryn.  So,  are  they  gone  ?    Now  tell  me,  brave 
Valerio, 
Have  I  not  wonne  the  wreath  from  all  your  wits. 
Brought  thee  t'enjoy  the  most    desired  presence 
Of  thy  deare  love  at  home,  and  with  one  labour  19s 
My  brother  t'enjoy  thy  sister,  where 
It  had  beene  her  undooing  t'have  hime  scene, 
And  ma  [d]  e  thy  father  crave  what  he  abhorres, 
T'entreate  my  brother  home  t'enjoy  his  daughter, 
Commaund  thee  kisse  thy  wench,  chide  for  not 

kissing ;  200 

198   made.    Emend,  ed.    gq,  make. 


42  01  i?OOlf0  [Act  H. 

And  work[t]  all  this  out  of  a  Machevil, 

A  miserable  politician  ? 

I  thinke  the  like  was  never  plaid  before  ! 

Fal.   Indeede  I   must  commend  thy  wit   of 
force, 
And  yet  I  know  not  whose  deserves  most  praise  205 
Of  thine  or  my  wit  :   thine  for  plotting  well, 
Mine  that  durst  undertake  and  carrie  it 
With  such  true  forme. 

Ryn.        Well,  th'  evening  crownes  the  daie; 
Persever  to  the  end,  my  wit  hath  put 
Blinde  Fortunne  in  a  string  into  your  hand;       210 
Use  it  discreetlie,  keepe  it  from  your  father. 
Or  you  may  bid  all  your  good  dales  good  night. 

Val.   Let  me  alone,  boy. 

Ryn-  Well,  sir,  now  to  varie 

The  pleasures  of  our  wits  ;  thou  knowst,  Valerio, 
Here  is  the  new  turnd  gentlemans  faire  wife,      215 
That  keepes  thy  wife  and  sister  companie, 
With  whome  the  amorous  courtier,  Doriotto, 
Is  farre  in  love,  and  of  whome  her  sowre  husband 
Is  passing  jelous,  puts  on  eagles  eies 
To  prie  into  her  carriage.    Shall  wee  see  220 

If  he  be  now  from  home,  and  visite  her. 

Enter  Gazetta  sowing,  Cornelia  following. 
See,  see,  the  prisoner  comes. 

Vol'  But  soft,  sir,  see 

201   nvorkt.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  worke. 


Scene  I.]  ^l  jfOOle0  43 

Her  jelous  jaylor  followes  at  her  heeles. 
Come,  we  will  watch  some  fitter  time  to  boord 

her, 
And  in  the  meane  time  seeke  out  our  mad  crue.zzs 
My  spirit  longs  to  swagger. 

Ryn.  Goe  too,  youth, 

Walke  not  too  boldly;   if  the  sergeants    meete 

you, 
You   may  have    swaggering  worke   your  bellie 
full. 
Val.  No  better  copesmates  ! 
He  go  seeke  am  out  with  this  light  in  my  hand  ;23o 
The  slaves  grow  proud  with  seeking  out  of  us. 
Exeunt  \_Valerio  and  Rinaldo^.    Gazetta  sits 
and  sings  sowing. 
Cornelto.  A  prettie  worke ;  I  pray  what  flowers 

are  these  ? 
Gazetta.    The  pancie  this. 
Cor.  O,  thats  for  lovers  thoughtes. 

Whats  that,  a  columbine  ? 

Gaz.  No,  that  thankles  flower 

Fitts  not  my  garden. 

Cor.  Hem!    Yet  it  may  mine. 23S 

This  were  a  prettie  present  for  some  friend, 

226—27   ^"^  •    •    •    '"eete  you.    Qq  print  as  one  line. 
Gazetta  .   .    .   solving.    Qq  give  this  direction  after  1.  229. 
234-235   No  .  .  .  mine.    Qq  break  the  lines   thus:    No  .  .  . 
garden.     Him  ?  .  .  .  mine. 

235   Hem!  Emend.  Do.    Qq,  Him.'' 


44  ^l  ifOOleg  [Act  n. 

Some  gallant  courtier,  as  for  Doriotto, 
One  that  adores  you  in  his  soule,  I  know. 

Gaz.    Mee  ?  Why  mee  more  then  your  selfe, 
I  pray  ? 

Cor.   O  yes,  hee  adores  you,  and  adhornes  mee.  240 
Yfaith,  deale  plainelie,  doe  not  his  kisses  relish 
Much  better  then  such  pessants  as  I  am  ? 

Ga-z.    Whose  kisses  ? 

Cor.  Doriottoes  ;   does  he  not 

The  thing  you  wot  on  ? 

Gaz.  What  thing,  good  Lord  ? 

Cor.    Why,  lady,  lie  with  you. 

Gaz.  Lie  with  mee  ?245 

Cor.    I,  with  you. 

Gaz.  You  with  mee,  indeed. 

Cor.    Nay,  I  am  told  that  he  lies  with  you  too. 
And  that  he  is  the  onely  whore-maister 
About  the  cittie. 

Gaz.  Yf  he  be  so  onely, 

Tis  a  good  hearing  that  there  are  no  more.         250 

Cor.    Well,   mistresse,   well,   I   will    not   be 
abusde; 
Thinke  not  you  daunce   in  netts ;   for  though 

you  do  not 
Make  brode  profession  of  your  love  to  him, 
Yet  do  I  understand  your  darkest  language, 
Your    treads    ath'toe,   your    secret  jogges    and 

wringes,  255 


Scene  I.]  01  ifOOlf 0  45 

Your  entercourse  of  glaunces  ;  every  tittle 
Of  your  close  amorous  rites  I  understand  ; 
They  speake  as  loud  to  mee,  as  if  you  said : 
"  My  dearest  Dariotto,  I  am  thine." 

Gaz.    Jesus,  what   moodes  are   these  ?    Did 
ever  husband  ^60 

Follow  his  wife  with  jelosie  so  unjust  ? 
That  once  I  lov'd  you,  you  your  selfe  will  sweare. 
And  if  I  did,  where  did  you  lose  my  love  ? 
In  deed  this  strange  and  undeserved  usage 
Hath  powre  to  shake  a  heart  were  nere  so  setled  ;  265 
But  I  protest  all  your  unkindnes  never 
Had  strength  to  make   me  wrong  you,  but  in 
thought. 

Cor.    No  ?   not  with  Doriotto  ? 

Gaz.  No,  by  heaven  ! 

Cor.    No   letters    past,  nor   no  designes    for 
meeting  ? 

Gax.    No,  by  my  hope  of  heaven  ! 

Cor.  Well,  no  time  past  jiyo 

Goe,  goe;  goe  in  and  sow, 

Gax.  Well,  bee  it  so.     Exit  Gaz\etta\. 

Cor.    Suspition  is  (they  say)  the  first  degree 
Of  deepest  wisedome  ;  and  how  ever  others 
Inveygh  against  this  mood  of  jelousy, 
For  my  part  I  suppose  it  the  best  curb  ^75 

To  check  the  ranging  appetites  that  raigne 
In  this  weake  sexe.    My  neighbours  poynt  at  me 


46  ^l  ifOOleflf  [Act  n. 

For  this  my  jelousy  ;   but  should  I  doe 

As  most  of  them  doe,  let  my  wife  fly  out 

To  feasts  and  revels  and  invite  home  gallants,    280 

Play  Menelaus,  give  them  time  and  place. 

While  I  sit  like  a  well-taught  wayting-woman. 

Turning  her  eyes  upon  some  worke  or  picture. 

Read  in  a  booke,  or  take  a  fayned  nap. 

While  her  kind  lady  takes  one  to  her  lap  ?  285 

No,  let  me  still  be  poynted  at  and  thought 

A  jelouse  asse,  and  not  a  wittally  knave. 

I  have  a  shew  of  courtyers  haunt  my  house. 

In  shew  my  friends,  and  for  my  profit  too ; 

But  I  perceive  um  and  will  mock  their  aymes    ^9° 

With  looking  to  their  marke,  I  warrant  um. 

I  am  content  to  ride  abroad  with  them. 

To  revell,  dice,  and  fit  their  other  sports  ; 

But  by  their  leaves  He  have  a  vigilant  eye 

To   the    mayne    chaunce  still.    See   my   brave 

comrades.  29S 

Enter  Dariotto,    \jind  Page,'\    Claudio,  and  Valeria  : 
Valeria  putting  up  his  sword. 
Dariotto.   Well,  wag,  well,  wilt  thou  still  de- 
ceive thy  father. 
And  being  so  simple  a  poore  soule  before  him, 
Turne  swaggerer  in  all  companies  besides  ? 
Claudio.   Hadst  thou  bin  rested,  all  would  have 
come  forth. 

288  ihetu.     Query,  crew. 


Scene  I.]  01  ^00it&  47 

Fal.  Soft,  sir,  there  lyes  the  poynt ;  I  do  not 
doubt  300 

But  t'  have  my  pennyworths  of  these  rascals  one 

day; 
He  smoke  the  buzzing  hornets  from  their  nests. 
Or  else  He  make  their  lether  jerkins  stay. 
The  whorson  hungry  horse-flyes  !    Foot,  a  man 
Cannot  so  soone,  for  want  of  almanacks,  305 

Forget  his  day  but  three  or  foure  bare  moneths, 
But  strait  he  sees  a  sort  of  corporals 
To  lye  in  ambuscado  to  surprize  him. 

Dar.   Well,  thou  hadst  happy  fortune  to  es- 
cape um. 
Fal.   But  they  thought  theirs  was  happier  to 

scape  me.  31° 

I  walking  in  the  place  where  mens  law  suites 
Are  heard  and  pleaded,  not  so  much  as  dreaming 
Of  any  such  encounter,  steps  me  forth 
Their  valiant  fore-man  with  the  word,  "  I  rest 

you." 
I  made  no  more  adoe,  but  layd  these  pawes        3 '5 
Close  on  his  shoulders,  tumbling  him  to  earth ; 
And  there  sate  he  on  his  posteriors 
Like  a  baboone  ;  and  turning  me  about, 
I  strayt  espyed  the  whole  troope  issuing  on  me. 
I  stept  me  backe,  and  drawing  my  olde  friend 

heere,  3^0 

Made  to  the  midst  of  them,  and  all  unable 


48  ^l  ifoole0  [Act  n. 

T'endure  the  shock,  all  rudely  fell  in  rout, 
And   downe  the  stayres  they  ranne  with  such  a 

fury, 
As  meeting  with  a  troope  of  lawyers  there, 
Man'd  by  their  clyents,  some  with   ten,  some 

with  twenty,  325 

Some  five,  some  three  —  he  that  had  least  had 

one  — 
Upon  the  stayres  they  bore  them  downe  afore 

them ; 
But  such  a  rattling  then  was  there  amongst  them 
Of  ravisht  declarations,  replications, 
Rejoynders  and  petitions,  all  their  bookes  330 

And  writings  torne  and  trod  on,  and  some  lost. 
That  the  poore  lawyers  comming  to  the  barre. 
Could  say  nought  to  the  matter,  but  instead. 
Were  fayne  to  rayleand  talke  besides  their  bookes 
Without  all  order,  335 

Clau.  Fayth,  that  same  vayne  of  rayling 

Became     now     most     applausive ;     your    best 

poet  is 
He  that  rayles  grossest. 

Dar.  True,  and  your  best  foole 

Is  your  broad  rayling  foole. 

Fal.  And  why  not,  sir  ? 

325   "with  ttuenty.    Query,  Is  not  this  second  luith  a  printer's 
error  ?    The  line  is  better  without  it.    Co  oinits  it. 
336   Became.    S,  is  become.    Co,  has  become. 


Scene  I.]  ^{  jfOOltH  49 

For  by  the  gods,  to  tell  the  naked  trueth,  340 

What  objects  see  men  in  this  world  but  such 
As  would  yeeld  matter  to  a  rayling  humour  ? 
When  he  that  last  yere  carryed  after  one 
An  empty  buckram  bag,  now  fills  a  coach, 
And  crowds  the  senate  with  such  troops  of  clyents  345 
And  servile  followers,  as  would  put  a  mad  spleene 
Into  a  pigeon, 

Dar.        Come,  pray  leave  these  crosse  capers. 
Let 's  make  some  better  use  of  precious  time. 
See,  here's  Cornelio  :  come,  lad,  shall  wc  to  dice  ? 

Cor.  Any  thing  I. 

Clau.  Well  sayd,  how  does  thy  wife  ?3So 

Cor.  In  health,  God  save  her. 

ral.  But  where  is  she,  man  ? 

Cor.   Abroad  about  her  businesse. 

Fal.  Why,  not  at  home  ? 

Foot,  my  masters,  take  her  to  the  court. 
And  this   rare   lad   her   husband :   and  —  doest 

heare  ?  — 
Play  me  no  more  the  miserable  farmer,  355 

But  be  advisde  by  friends,  sell  all  ith  countrey. 
Be  a  flat  courtier,  follow  some  great  man. 
Or  bring  thy  wife  there,and  sheele  make  thee  great. 

Cor.  What,  to  the  court  ?    Then  take  me  for 
a  gull. 

ral.   Nay,  never  shun  it  to  be  cald  a  gull ;      360 
For  I  see  all  the  world  is  but  a  gull. 


50  aiifOOleS;  [Act  II. 

One  man  gull  to  another  in  all  kinds  : 

A  marchant  to  a  courtyer  is  a  gull, 

A  clyent  to  a  lawyer  is  a  gull, 

A  maryed  man  to  a  bacheler,  a  gull,  365 

A  bacheler  to  a  cuckold  is  a  gull. 

All  to  a  poet,  or  a  poet  to  himselfe. 

Cor.  [aside']  .  Hark,  Dariotto,  shall  we  gull  this 
guller  ? 

Dar.  [aside].    He  gulls  his   father,  man,  we 
cannot  gull  him. 

Cor.  [aside].    Let  me  alone.  —  Of  all  mens 
wits  alive  37° 

I  most  admyre  Valerioes,  that  hath  stolne. 
By  his  meere  industry,  and  that  by  spurts. 
Such  qualities  as  no  wit  else  can  match 
With  plodding  at  perfection  every  houre; 
Which,  if  his  father  knew  eche  gift  he  has,         375 
Were  like  enough  to  make  him  give  all  from  him  : 
I  meane,  besides  his  dyeing  and  his  wenching. 
He  has  stolne  languages,  th'Italian,  Spanish, 
And  some  spice  of  the  French,  besides  his  daunc- 

Singing,  playing  on  choyce  instruments  :  380 

These  he  has  got  almost  against  the  hayre. 

Clau.   But  hast  thou  stolne  all  these,  Valerio  ? 

Vol.  Toyes,  toyes,  a  pox  ;  and  yet  they  be 
such  toyes 
As  every  gentleman  would  not  be  without. 


Scene  I]  ^l  jf OOlCS!  5 1 

Cor.  Vayne  glory  makes  yee  judge  [um]  lyte, 

yfayth.  385 

Dar.   Afore  heaven,  I  was  much  deceyv'd  in 
him  ; 
But  hee's  the  man  indeed  that  hides  his  gifts, 
And  sets  them  not  to  sale  in  every  presence. 
I   would  have  sworne  his  soule  were  far  from 

musike ; 
And  that  all  his  choyce  musike  was  to  heare       39° 
His  fat  beastes  bellow. 

Cor.  Sir,  your  ignorance 

Shall  eftsoone  be  confuted.      Prythee,  Val, 
Take  thy  theorbo  for  my  sake  a  little. 

Val.   By  heaven,  this  moneth  I  toucht  not  a 

theorbo ! 
Cor.  Toucht  a  theorbo  !  marke  the  very  word!  395 
Sirra,  goe  fetch.  Exit  Page. 

Val.   If  you  will  have  it,    I  must  needes  con- 
fesse 
I  am  no  husband  of  my  qualityes. 

He  untrusses  and  capers. 
Cor.   See  what  a  caper  there  was  ! 
Clau.  See  agayne  ! 

Cor.  The   best    that  ever ;    and   how    it  be- 
comes him !  400 
Dar.    O  that  his  father  saw  these  qualityes  ! 

385   um.    Emend,  ed.    Co  suggests,   'em  light.    Qq,   on.    See 
Notes,  p.  126. 


52  ;ai  i?oole0  [act  n. 

Enter  a  Page  with  an  instrument. 

Cor.  Nay,  that's  the  very  wonder  of  his  wit, 
To  carry  all  without  his  fathers  knowledge. 

Dar.  Why,  we  might  tell  him  now. 

Cor.  No,  but  we  could  not, 

Although    we    think    we   could;    his  wit  doth 

charme  us.  405 

Come,  sweet  Val,  touch  and  sing. 

\_Val.~\  Foote,  will  you  heare 

The  worst  voyce  in  Italy  ? 

Enter  Rinaldo. 

Cor.  O  God,  sir.      He  sings. 

Courtiers,  how  like  you  this  ? 

Dar.  Beleeve  it,  excellent. 

Cor.   Is  it  not  naturall  ? 

Val.  If  my  father  heard  me. 

Foot,  hee  'd  renounce  me  for  his  naturall  sonne.410 

Dar.   By  heaven,  Valerio,  and   I   were    thy 
father. 
And  lov  'd  good  qualities  as  I  doe  my  life, 
Ide  disinherit  thee  :   for  I  never  heard 
Dog  howle  with  worse  grace. 

Cor.  Go  to,  Signeur  Courtier, 

You  deale  not  courtly  now  to  be  so  playne,        4' 5 
Nor  nobly,  to  discourage  a  young  gentleman. 
In  vertuous  qualityes,  that  has  but  stolne  um. 

406    Val.  Emend,  ed.    Qq,  Dar. 

407-408    0  God  .    .    .    this.    Qq  print  this  as  one  line,  includ- 
ing stage-direction. 


Scene  I.]  ^l  S^00lt&  53 

Clau.   Call  you  this  touching  a  theorbo  ? 
Omnes.  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

Exeunt  all  but  ^al[erio\  and  Ri?!\_aldo\. 
Vol.   How  now,  what's  heere  ? 
Rin.  Zoones,  a  plot  layd  to  gull  thee. 

Could  thy  wit  thinke  th[y]  voyce  was   worth 

the  hearing  ?  4^° 

This  was  the  courtiers  and  the  cuckolds  project. 
Vol.    And  ist  eene  so  ?  Tis  very  well,  Mast. 
Courtier 
And  Dan  Cornuto,  He  cry  quit  with  both  : 
And  first  He  cast  a  jarre  betwixt  them  both, 
With  firing  the  poore  cuckolds  jelousy.  4^5 

I  have  a  tale  will  make  him  madde 
And  turne  his  wife  divorced  loose  amongst  us. 
But  first  let's  home,  and  entertayne  my  wife. 
O  father,  pardon,  I  was  borne  to  gull  thee. 

Exeunt. 

Finis  Actus  secundi. 

420  thy.    Emend.  S.    Qq,  the. 

422-425  And  .  .  .  jelousy.  Qq  print  this  as  three  11.  of  prose, 
thus  :  And  ist.  .  .  Dan  \  Cornuto  .  .  .  jarre  |  betwixt  .  .  . 
jealousy. 

423   And.    Qq,  &. 


Actus  III.    Scena  I. 

[^J  Street  in  Florence,  before  the  House  of  Gostanzo.'] 

Enter  Fortunio,  Bellanora,  Gratiana,  Gostanzo  follow- 
ing closely. 

Fortunio.    How  happy  am  I  that  by  this  sweet 
meanes 
I  gayne  accesse  to  your  most  loved  sight. 
And  therewithal!  to  utter  my  full  love, 
Which  but  for  vent  would   burne  my  entrayles 
up  ! 
Gostanzo  [aside'] .    Byth  masse,  they  talke  too 

softly. 
Bellonora.  Little  thinks 

The  austere  mind  my  thrifty  father  beares 
That  I  am  vowd  to  you,  and  so  am  bound 
From  him  who  for  more  riches  he  would  force 
On  my  disliking  fancy. 

Fort.  Tis  no  fault 

With  just  deeds  to  defraud  an  injury. 

Gost.  [aside]  .  My  daughter  is  perswading  him 
to  yeeld 
In  dutifull  submission  to  his  father. 
Enter  Valerio. 
Val.    Do   I  not    dreame  ?   do   I   behold    this 
sight 


Scene  I]  gl  jfoOlfg  55 

With  waking  eyes  ?   or  from  the  ivory  gate 

Hath  Morpheus  sent  a  vision  to  delude  me?         15 

1st  possible  that  I,  a  mortall  man, 

Should  shrine  within  mine  armes  so  bright  a  god- 

desse, 
The  fayre  Gratiana,  beautyes  little  world? 
Gost.  \aside\ .    What  have  we  heere  ? 
Val.    My  deerest  myne  of  gold,  ^o 

All  this  that  thy  white  armes  enfold. 
Account  it  as  thine  owne  free-hold. 
Gost.  Gods  my  deare  soule,  what  sudde  change 
is  here  ! 
I  smell  how  this  geare  will  fall  out,  yfayth. 
Val.    Fortunio,  sister ;  come,  let's  to  the  gar- 
den. 25 
Exeunt   ^Valeria,  Gratiana,   Fortunio,   and 
Bellonora~^ . 

Gost.    Sits  the  wind   there,  yfayth  ?  see  what 
example 
Will  worke  upon  the  dullest  appetite. 
My  Sonne  last  day  so  bashfull  that  he  durst  not 
Looke  on  a  wench,  now  courts  her ;  and,  byr-lady ! 
Will  make  his  friend  Fortunio  weare  his  head      30 
Of  the  right  moderne  fashion.    What,  Rinaldo  ! 
Enter  Rin  \_aldo\ . 
Ryn  \aldo\ .    I  feare  I  interrupt  your  privacy. 
Gost.    Welcome,  Rinaldo,    would   'thad   bin 
your  hap 


56  ;ai  i?OOle0  [Act  III. 

To  come  a  little  sooner,  that  you  might 

Have    seene  a  handsome    sight :    but    let    that 

passe,  35 

The  short  is  that  your  sister  Gratiana 
Shall  stay  no  longer  here. 

Ryn.  No  longer,  sir  .? 

Repent  you  then  so  soone  your  favour  to  her, 
And  to  my  brother .'' 

Gost.  Not  so,  good  Rinaldo ; 

But  to  prevent  a  mischiefe  that  I  see  4° 

Hangs  over  your  abused  brothers  head. 
In  briefe,  my  sonne  has  learn'd  but  too  much 

courtship. 
It  was  my  chaunce  even  now  to  cast  mine  eye 
Into  a  place  where  to  your  sister  entred 
My  metamorphosde  sonne:   I  must  conceale        45 
What  I  saw  there  ;  but  to  be  playne,  I  saw 
More  then  I  would  see  :  I  had  thought  to  make 
My  house  a  kind  receypt  for  your  kind  brother; 
But  Ide  be  loth  his  wife  should  find  more  kind- 

nesse 
Then  she  had  cause  to  like  of. 

Ryn.  What's  the  matter  ?  50 

Perhaps  a  little  complement  or  so. 

Gost.    Wei,  sir,  such  complement  perhaps  may 
cost 
Marryed  Fortunio  the  setting  on  : 

44  IV here  to.    gq  print  as  one  word 


Scene  I]  ^i  S^OOitH  57 

Nor  can  I  keepe  my  knowledge  ;  he  that  lately 
Before  my  face  I  could  not  get  to  looke  55 

Upon  your  sister,  by  this  light,  now  kist  her, 
Embrac't  and  courted  with  as  good  a  grace 
As  any  courtyer  could  :   and  I  can  tell  you 
(Not  to  disgrace  her)  I  perceyv'd  the  dame 
Was  as  far  forward  as  himselfe,  byth  masse.         60 

Ryn.   You  should  have  schoold  him  for 't. 

Gost.  No,  He  not  see  't : 

For  shame  once  found,  is  lost ;  He  have  him  thinke 
That  my  opinion  of  him  is  the  same 
That  it  was  ever  ;  it  will  be  a  meane 
To  bridle  this  fresh  humour  bred  in  him.  65 

Ryn.   Let  me    then   schoole    him ;   foot.   He 
rattle  him  up. 

Gost.  No,  no,  Rinaldo,  th'onely  remedy 
Is  to  remove  the  cause,  carry  the  object 
From  his  late  tempted  eyes. 

Ryn.  Alas,  sir,  whither  ? 

You  know  my  father  is  incenst  so  much  70 

Heele  not  receyve  her. 

Gost.  Place  her  with  some  friend 

But  for  a  time,  till  I  reclayme  your  father  : 
Meane  time  your  brother  shall  remaine  with  me. 

Ryn.   (jo  himselfe).    The  care's  the  lesse  then  ; 
he  has  still  his  longing, 
To  be  with  this  gulls  daughter. 

74  to  himselfe.    Qq  place  this  in  left  hand  margin  of  the  page. 


58  ^l  jfOOlta  [Act  m. 

Gost.  What  resolve  you  ?     75 

I  am  resolv'd  she  lodges  here  no  more  : 
My  friends  sonne  shall  not  be  abusde  by  mine. 

Ryn.  Troth,  sir,  He  tell  you  what  a  sudden 
toy 
Comes  in  my  head  ;  what  think  you  if  I  brought 

her 
Home  to  my  fathers  house  ? 

Gost.  I,  mary,  sir ;  80 

Would  he  receyve  her  ? 

Ryn.  Nay,  you  heare  not  all  : 

I  meane  with  use  of  some  device  or  other. 

Gost.  As  how,  Rinaldo  ? 

Ryn.  Mary,  sir,  to  say 

She  is  your  sonnes  wife,  maryed  past  your  know- 
ledge. 

Gost.   I  doubt,  last  day  he  saw  her,  and  will 
know  her  85 

To  be  Fortunioes  wife. 

Ryn.  Nay,  as  for  that 

I  will  pretend  she  was  even  then   your   sonnes 

wife. 
But  fayned  by  me  to  be  Fortunioes, 
Onely  to  try  how  he  would  take  the  matter. 

Gost.    'Fore  heaven,  'twere  pretty  ! 

Ryn.  Would  it  not  doe  well  ?  90 

79-80  Comes  .    .    .    house.    Qq  print  this  as  prose,  breaking  the 
line  after  home. 


Scene  I.]  ^l  iTOOUfi!  59 

Gost.  Exceeding  well,  in  sadnesse. 

Ryn.  Nay,  good  sir, 

Tell  me  unfaynedly,  do  ye  lik't  indeed  ? 

Gost.  The  best  that  ere  I  heard. 

Ryn.  And  do  you  thinke 

Heele  swallow  downe  the  gudgion  ? 

Gosi.  A  my  life 

It  were  a  grosse  gob  would  not  downe    with 

him  ;  95 

An  honest  knight,  but  simple,  not  acquainted 
With  the  fine  slights  and  policies  of  the  world 
As  I  my  selfe  am. 

Ryn.  He  go  fetch  her  strait  ; 

And    this  jest   thrive  t'will   make   us   princely 

sport : 
But  you  must  keepe  our  counsell,  second  all,    loo 
Which  to  make  likely,  you  must  needs   some- 
times 
Give  your  sonne  leave  (as  if  you  knew  it  not) 
To  steale  and  see  her  at  my  fathers  house. 

Gost.   I,  but  see  you  then  that  you  keepe  good 
gard 
Over  his  forward,  new  begun  affections  ;  105 

For,  by  the  Lord,  heele  teach  your  brother  else 
To  sing  the  cuckooes  note :  spirit  will  breake  out. 
Though  never  so  supprest  and  pinioned. 

Ryn.  Especially  your  sonnes  :  what  would  he 
be, 


60  ai  i?OOle0  [Act  HI. 

If  you  should  not  restrayne  him  by  good  coun- 

sell  ?  "o 

Gost.   He  have  an  eye  on  him,  I  warrant  thee, 
lie  in  and  warne  the  gentlewoman  to  make  ready. 

Ryn.   Wei,  sir,  &  He  not  be  long  after  you. 

Exit  Gost  [anzo] . 
Heaven,  heaven,  I  see  these  politicians 
(Out  of  blind  Fortunes  hands)   are  our  most 

fooles  ;  "5 

Tis  she  that  gives  the  lustre  to  their  wits. 
Still  plodding  at  traditionall  devices ; 
But  take  um  out  of  them  to  present  actions, 
A  man  may  grope  and  tickle  um  like  a  trowt, 
And  take  um  from  their  close  deere  holes  as  fat  no 
As  a  Phisician,  and  as  giddy-headed 
As  if  by  myracle  heaven  had  taken  from  them 
Even  that  which  commonly  belongs  to  fooles. 
Well,  now  let's  note  what  black  ball  of  debate 
Valerioes  wit  hath  cast  betwixt  Cornelio  1^5 

And  the  inamoured  courtyer  ;   I  beleeve 
His  wife  and  he  will  part :   his  jelousy 
Hath  ever  watcht  occasion  of  divorce. 
And  now  Valerioes  villany  will  present  it. 
See,  here  comes  the  twyn-courtier  his  companio.  130 
Enter  Claud^io] . 

Claudio.    Rinaldo,  well  encountred. 

Ryn.  Why,  what  newes  ? 

122   by.    Emend.  Do.    Qq,  be 


Scene!.]  01  i?00leSf  6 1 

Clau.  Most  sudden  and  infortunate,  Rinaldo  : 
Cornelio  is  incenst  so  'gainst  his  wife 
That  no  man  can  procure  her  quiet  with  him. 
I  have  assayd  him,  and  made  Marc  Antonio       135 
With  all  his  gentle  rethorike  second  me, 
Yet  all,  I  feare  me,  will  be  cast  away. 
See,    see,    they    come :    joyne    thy    wit,    good 

Rinaldo, 
And  helpe  to  pacify  his  yellow  fury. 

Ryn.  With    all   my  heart,  I   consecrate  my 
wit  140 

To  the  wisht  comfort  of  distressed  ladies. 
Enter  Cornelio,  Marc  Ant[onio'\,  Valerio,  \and'\  Page. 

Cornelio.  Will  any  man  assure  me  of  her  good 
behaviour  ? 

Val.   Who  can   assure  a  jelous  spirit  ?    you 
may  be  afrayd  of  the  shaddow  of  your  eares,i45 
&  imagine  the  to  be  homes  :  if  you  will  assure 
your  selfe,  appoynt  keepers  to  watch  her. 

Cor.  And  who  shall  watch  the  keepers  ? 

Marc.  Antonio.  To  be  sure  of  that  be  you  her 
keeper.  ^5° 

Val.  Well  sayd,  and  share  the  homes  your 
selfe  :   for  that's  the  keepers  fee. 

Cor.  But  say  I  am  gone  out  of  town  &  must 
trust  others,  how  shall  I  know  if  those  I  trust  be 
trusty  to  me  ?  "55 

Ryn.  Mary,  sir,  by  a  singular  instinct,  given 


62  ^I  ifOOleSi  [Act  III. 

naturally  to  all  you  maryed  men,  that  if  your 
wives  play  legerdeheele,  though  you  bee  a  hun- 
dred miles  off,  yet  you  shall  be  sure  instantly  to 
find  it  in  your  forheads.  i6o 

Cor.  Sound  doctrine,  I  warrant  you:  I  am  re- 
solv'd,  ifaith. 

Page.  Then  give  me  leave  to  speak,  sir,  that 
hath  all  this  while  bene    silent :    I   have  heard 
you    with    extreme    patience,    now,    therefore,  165 
pricke     up    your    eares,    and     vouchsafe     me 
audience. 

Clau.   Good  boy,  a  mine  honour  ! 

Cor.   Pray,  what  are  you,  sir  ? 

Page.  I  am  here,  for  default  of  better,  of  170 
counsel  with  the  fayre  Gazetta,  and  though 
her  selfe  had  bene  best  able  to  defend  her  selfe, 
if  she  had  bin  here  and  would  have  pleasd  to  put 
forth  the  buckler  which  Nature  hath  given  all 
women,  I  meane  her  tongue —  175 

Val.   Excellent  good  boy  ! 

Page.  Yet  since  she  either  vouchsafes  it  not, 
or  thinks  her  innocence  a  sufficient  shield 
against  your  jelous  accusations,  I  wil  presume 
to  undertake  the  defence  of  that  absent  &180 
honorable  lady,  whose  sworne  knight  I  am, 
and  in  her  of  all  that  name  (for  lady  is  growne 
a  common  name  to  their  whole  sex),  which  sex 

liz  htr  of  all  that.    So  Qq.    Co,  her  all  of  that. 


Scene  I.]  gl  jf0Olt&  63 

I  have  ever  loved  fro  my  youth,  and  shall  never 
cease  to  love  till  I  want  wit  to  admire.  185 

Marc.   An  excellent  spoken  boy  ! 

Val.   Give   eare,   Cornelio,   heere    is  a  yong 
Mercurio  sent  to  perswade  thee. 

Cor.   Well,  sir,  let  him  say  on. 

Page.   It  is  a  heavy  case  to  see  how  this  light  190 
sex  is  tubled  and  tost   from  post  to  piller  under 
the  unsavory  breath  of  every  humourous  peas- 
ant :   Gazetta,  you  sayd,  is   unchaste,  disloyall, 
and   I   wot  not  what;  alas,  is  it  her  fault?  is 
shee  not  a  woman  ?   did  she  not  suck  it  (as  oth-i9S 
ers  of  her  sex  doe)   from  her  mothers  brest  ?   and 
will  you  condemne  that  as  her  fault  which    is 
her    nature  ?      Alas,   sir,  you    must   consider  a 
woman     is     an    unfinisht     creature,     delivered 
hastyly  to  the  world  before  Nature  had  set  to  200 
that  seale  which  should   have   made  them  per- 
fect.    Faultes  they  have  (no  doubt) ;  but  are 
wee  free  ?     Turne  your  eye  into  your  selfe  (good 
Signeur  Cornelio)  and  weygh  your  owne  imper- 
fections with  hers.      If  shee  be  wanton  abroad, 205 
are  not  you  wanting  at  home  ?   if  she  be  amor- 
ous, are  not  you  jelous  .''   if  she  be  high  set,  are 
not  you  taken  downe  ?   if  she  be  a  courtizan,  are 
not  you  a  cuckold  ? 

Cor.   Out,  you  rogue  !  *^o 

Ryn.   On  with  thy  speech,  boy  ! 


64  01  i?OOle0  [Act  IIL 

Marc,  You   doe   not  well,  Comelio,  to   dis- 
courage the  bashfull  youth. 

Clau.  Forth,  boy,  I  warrant  thee. 
Page.   But  if   our  owne    imperfections    will  21 5 
not  teach  us  to  beare  with  theirs,  yet  let  their 
vertues   perswade    us :   let  us    indure  their  bad 
qualities   for  their  good ;  allow  the  prickle  for 
the  rose,  the  bracke   for  the  velvet,  the  paring 
for  the  cheese,  and  so  forth.      If  you  say  they  220 
range  abroad,  consider  it  is  nothing  but  to  avoyd 
idlenesse  at  home  :   their  nature  is  still  to  be  do- 
ing :   keepe    um    a   doing    at    home :   let    them 
practise  one  good  quality  or  other,  either  sowing, 
singing,     playing,   chiding,  dauncing,  or  so,   ^225 
these  will  put  such  idle  toyes  out  of  their  heads 
into  yours  :    but  if  you  cannot  find  them  vari- 
ety of  businesse  within  dores,  yet  at  least  imitate 
the  ancient  wise  citizens  of  this  city,  who  used 
carefully  to  provide  their  wives  gardens  neere23o 
the    towne,  to    plant,  to    graft   in,  as    occasion 
served,  onely  to  keep  um  from  idlenesse. 

Val'  Everlasting  good  boy  ! 

Cor.  I  perceyve  your  knavery,  sir,  and  will 
yet  have  patience.  »3S 

Ryn.   P'orth,  my  brave  Curio. 

Page.  As  to  her  unquietnesse  (which  some 
have  rudely  tearm'd  shrewishnesse),  though  the 
fault  be  in  her,  yet  the  cause  is  in  you.    What  so 


Scene  L]  01  jfOOleg  65 

calme    as  the  sea  of  it  own  nature?     Arte  was 240 
never  able  to  equall  it :   your  dyeing  tables,  nor 
your  bowling  alleys  are  not  comparable  to  it ; 
yet  if  a  blast  of  wind  do  but  crosse   it,  not  so 
turbulent  &  violent  an  element  in  the  world.  So 
(Nature,  in  lieu  of  womens  scarcity  of  wit,  hav-HS 
ing  indued  them  with  a  large  portion  of  will) 
if  they  may  (without  impeach)  injoy  their  willes, 
no  quieter  creatures   under  heaven:   but  if  the 
breath  of  their  husbads  mouthes  once  crosse  their  « 
wils,  nothing  more  tempestuous.   Why  the,  sir,  250 
should  you   husbands   crosse    your   wives  wils 
thus,  considering   the  law   allowes  the   no  wils 
at  all  at  their  deaths,  because  it   intended  they 
should  have  their  willes  while  they  lived  ? 

Val.   Answere  him  but  that,  Cornelio.  255 

Cor.  All    shall   not    serve  her  turne,    I    am 
thinking  of  other  matters. 

Marc.   Thou  hast  halfe  wonne  him,  wag  ;  ply 
him  yet  a  little  further. 

Page.  Now  (sir)  for  these  cuckooish  songs  of26o 
yours,  of  cuckolds,  homes,  grafting,  and  such 
like,  what  are  they  but  meere  imaginary  toyes, 
bred  out  of  your  owne  heads  as  your  owne,  and 
so  by  tradition  delivered  from  man  to  man,  like 
scar-crowes,  to  terrify  fooles  from  this  earthly  265 
paradice  of  wedlock ;  coyn'd  at  first  by  some 
spent  poets,  superannated  bachelers,or  some  that 


66  ai  i?OOle0  [Act  III. 

were  scarce  men  of  their  hands  ;  who,  like  the 
foxe,  having  lost  his  taile,  would  perswade  others 
to  lose  theirs  for  company  ?  Agayne,  for  your27o 
cuckold,  what  is  it  but  a  meere  fiction  ?  Shew 
me  any  such  creature  in  nature ;  if  there  be,  I 
could  never  see  it,  neyther  could  I  ever  find 
any  sensible  difference  betwixt  a  cuckold  and  a 
christen  creature.  To  conclude,  let  poets  coyne,275 
or  fooles  credit,  what  they  list ;  for  mine  owne 
part,  I  am  cleere  of  this  opinion,  that  your 
cuckold  is  a  meere  Chymaera,and  that  there  are 
no  cuckoldes  in  the  world —  but  those  that  have 
wives  :   and  so  I  will  leave  them.  z8o 

Cor.  Tis  excellent  good,  sir;  I  do  take  you, 
sir,  d'  ye  see  ?  to  be,  as  it  were,  bastard  to  the 
sawcy  courtier  that  would  have  me  father  more 
of  your  fraternity,  d'  ye  see  ?  &  so  are  instructed 
(as  we  heare)  to  second  that  villayne  with  your285 
toung,  which  he  has  acted  with  his  tenure  piece, 
d'ye  see? 

Page.   No  such  matter,  a  my  credit,  sir. 

Cor.   Wei,  sir,  be  as  be  may,  I   scorn  to  set 
my  head  against  yours,  d'  ye  see?  when  in  the 290 
meane  time   I  will   fircke  your  father,  whether 
you  see  or  no.    Exit  [^Cornelio^  drawing  his  rapier. 

Ryn.   Gods  my  life,  Cornelio  !  Exit  \_Rinaldo']. 

Val.   Have  at  your  father,  ifaith,  boy,  if  he 
can  find  him.  295 

285   ■villayne.    So  Qq.    Query,  villaynie. 


Scene  I.]  ^l  foOltS  67 

Marc,  See,  he  comes  here,  he  hast  mist  him. 
Enter  Dariot  [/»] . 

Dariotto.   How  now,  my  hearts,  what,  not  a 
wench  amongst  you  ? 
Tis  a  signe  y'are  not  in  the  grace  of  wenches 
That  they  will  let  you  be  thus  long  alone. 

Val.   Well,  Dariotto,  glory  not  too  much        300 
That  for  thy  briske  attyre  and  lips  perfumde 
Thou    playest    the    stallyon    ever   where   thou 

com'st; 
And    like   the  husband   of  the    flocke,  runn'st 

through 
The  whole  towne  heard,  and  no  mans  bed  secure. 
No  womans  honour  unattempted  by  thee.  305 

Thinke  not  to  be  thus  fortunate  for  ever, 
But  in  thy  amorous  conquests  at  the  last 
Some  wound  will  slice  your  mazer  :    Mars  him- 

selfe 
Fell  into  Vulcans  snare,  and  so  may  you. 

Dar.  Alas,  alas,  fayth,  I  have  but  the  name  :3io 
I  love  to  court  and  wynne  ;  and  the  consent, 
Without  the  act  obtayn'd,  is  all  I  seeke. 
I  love  the  victory  that  drawes  no  blood. 

Clau.   O,  tis  a  high  desert  in  any  man 
To  be  a  secret  lecher;  I  know  some,  315 

That  (like  thy  selfe)  are  true  in  nothing  else. 

Marc.   And,  me  thinks,  it  is  nothing  if  not  told ; 
At  least  the  joy  is  never  full  before. 


68  ai  ifOOle0  [Act  III. 

Val.  Well,  Dariotto,  th'  hadst  as  good  con- 
fesse, 
The  sunne  shines  broad  upon  your  practises.      3*° 
Vulcan  will  wake  and  intercept  you  one  day. 

Dar.   Why,  the  more  jelous  knave  and  cox- 
combe  he  ! 
What,  shall  the  shaking  of  his  bed  a  little 
Put  him  in  motion  ?    It  becomes  him  not ; 
Let  him  be  duld  and  staid,  and  then  be  quiet,     ^^s 
The  way  to  draw  my  costome  to  his  house 
Is  to  be  mad  and  jelous;   tis  the  sauce 
That  whets  my  appetite. 

Val.  Or  any  mans  : 

Sine  periculo  fr'tget  lusus. 

They  that  are  jelous,  use  it  still  of  purpose         33° 
To  draw  you  to  their  houses. 

Dar.  I,  by  heaven  ! 

I  am  of  that  opinion.    Who  would  steale 
Out  of  a  common  orchard  ?    Let  me  gayne 
My  love  with  labour,  and  injoy  't  with  feare, 
Or  I  am  gone. 

Enter  Rinaldo. 

Ryn.  What,  Dariotto  here  ?  335 

Foot,  dar'st  thou  come  neere  Cornelioes  house  ? 

Dar.   Why  ?  is  the  bull  run  mad  ?  what  ayles 
he,  trow  ? 

Ryn.   I  know  not  what  he  ayles,  but  I  would 
wish  you 


Scene  I]  ^l  ^OOlC0  69 

To  keepe  out  of  the  reach  of  his  sharpe  homes  : 
For,  by  this  hand,  heele  gore  you. 

Dar.  And  why  me  34° 

More  then  thy  selfe,  or  these  two  other  whelps  ? 
You  all  have  basted  him  as  well  as  I. 
I  wonder  what 's  the  cause. 

Ryn-  Nay,  that  he  knowes, 

And  sweares  withall,  that  wheresoere  he  meets 

you, 
Heele  marke  you  for  a  marker  of  mens  wives.    345 

Fal.   Pray  heaven   he  be  not  jelous  by  some 
tales 
That  have  bin  told  him  lately !   did  you  never 
Attempt  his  wife  ?   hath  no  loves  harbenger, 
No  looks,  no  letters  past  twixt  you  and  her  ? 

Dar.    For  Iook[s]    I  cannot  answere ;   I  be- 
stow them  350 
At  large,  and  carelesly,  much  like  the  sunne  : 
If  any  be  so  foolish  to  apply  them 
To  any  private  fancy  of  their  owne, 
(As  many  doe)  it 's  not  my  fault,  thou  knowest. 

Fal.    Well,  Dariotto,  this  set  face  of  thine     355 
(If  thou  be  guilty  of  offence  to  him) 
Comes  out  of  very  want  of  wit  and  feeling 
What  danger  haunts  thee  :   for  Cornelio 
Is  a  tall  man,  I  tell  you  ;  and  'twere  best 
You  shund  his  sight  awhile,  till  we  might  get     360 

350  looks.    Emend.  S.    Qq,  looke. 


70  ^l  ifOOlefi  [Act  III. 

His  patience,  or  his  pardon  ;   for  past  doubt 
Thou  dyest,  if  he  but  see  thee. 
Enter  Come  Ho. 
Ryn.  Foot,  he  comes. 

Dar.    Is  this    the   cockatrice   that    kils  with 
sight  ? 
How  doest  thou  boy  ?   ha  ? 
Cor.  Well. 

Dar.  What,  lingring  still 

About  this  paltry  towne  ?   Hadst  thou  bin  rulde365 
By  my  advice,  thou  hadst  by  this  time  bene 
A  gallant  courtyer,  and  at  least  a  knight : 
I  would  have  got  thee  dubd   by  this  time  cer- 
tayne. 
Cor.    And  why  then  did  you   not  your  selfe 

that  honour? 
Dar.    Tush,  tis  more   honour  still  to  make  a 
knight  370 

Then  tis  to  be  a  knight :  to  make  a  cuckold 
Then  tis  to  be  a  cuckold. 

Cor.  Y'are  a  villayne! 

Dar.    God  shield,  man  :   villayne  ? 
Cor.  I,  He  prove  thee  one. 

Dar.    What  wilt  thou  prove  a  villayne  ? 
By  this  light  thou  deceyv'st  me  then.  375 

Cor.    Well,  sir,  thus  I  prove  it. 

[^Cornelio'^  drawes.     \T'hey  fighf^. 
Omnes.  Hold,  hold,  rayse  the  streets  ! 


Scene  I]  jSl  jfOOle^  ']  I 

Clau.    Cornelio  ! 
Ryn.    Hold,  Darioto,  hold  ! 
Val.  What,  art  thou  hurt  ? 

Dar.    A  scratch,  a  scratch. 

Val.  Goe  sirra,  fetch  a  surgeon.   \_Exit  Page.'\ 

Cor.    Youle  set  a  badge  on  the  jelous  fooles 
head,  sir;  380 

Now  set  a  coxcombe  on  your  owne. 

Val.    What's  the  cause  of  these  warres,  Da- 
rioto ? 
Dar.    Foot,  I  know  not. 
Cor.    Well,  sir,  know  and   spare  not ;   I  will 
presently  bee  divorst :  and  then  take  her  amongst  3^5 
ye! 

Ryn.    Divorst  ?   nay,  good  Cornelio  ! 
Cor.    By  this  sword  I  will ;  the  world  shall 
not  disswade  me.  Exit  \Cornelio\. 

Val.    Why  this  has  bin  your  fault  now,  Da- 
rioto ; 
You  youths  have  fashions,  when  you  have  ob- 

tei'nd  390 

A  ladies  favour,  straight  your  hat  must  weare  it, 
Like  a  jacke-daw  that,  when  he  lights  upon 
A  dainty  morsell,  kaas  and  makes  his  brags. 
And   then   some  kite  doth  scoope  it  from  him 

straight. 
Where  if  he  fed  without  his  dawish  noise,  395 

He  might  fare  better,  and  have  lesse  disturbance : 


72  ^l  ifOOlCflf  [Act  III. 

Forbeare  it  in  this  case ;  and  when  you  prove 
Victorious  over  faire  Gazettas  forte, 
Doe  not,  for  pittie,  sound  your  trumpe  for  joy, 
But  keepe  your  valour  close,  and  'tis  your  honour.  4°° 
Enter  Page  a?id  Pock. 

Pock.   God  save  you,  Signior  Darioto. 

Dar.   I  icnow  you  not,  sir  ;  your  name,  I  pray  } 

Pock.   My  name  is  Pock,  sir;  a  practitioner 
in  surgery. 

Dar.   Pock,  the  surgeon,  y' are  welcome,  sir;40S 
I  know  a  doctor  of  your  name,  maister  Pocke. 

Pock.   My   name  has  made  many  doctors,  sir. 

Ryn.   Indeede,  tis  a  worshipfull  name. 

Val.   Mary,  is  it,  and  of  an  auncient  discent. 

Pock.  Faith,  sir,   I  could   fetch   my   pedigree 410 
far,  if  I  were  so  dispos'd. 

Ryn.   Out  of  France,  at  least. 

Pock.      And  if  I  stood  on  my  armes  as  others 
doe  — 

Dar.   No,  doe  not   Pock,  let  others  stand  a 41 5 
their  armes,  and  thou  a  thy  legs  as  long  as  thou 
canst. 

Pock.   Though  I  live  by  my  bare  practise,  yet 
I  could  shew  good  cardes  for  my  gentilitie. 

Val.  Tush,  thou  canst  not  shake  off  thygen-420 
try.  Pock,  tis  bred  i'th  bone  ;  but  to  the  maine. 
Pock,    what    thinkest  thou  of  this  gentlemans 
wound,  Pock,  canst  thou  cure  it,  Pock } 


Scene  I]  01  i^OOlefif  73 

Pock.   The  incision  is  not  deepe,  nor  the  ori- 
fice exorbitant,  the  pericranion  is  not  dislocated  5425 
I  warrant  his  life  for  forty  crownes  without  per- 
ishing of  any  joynt. 

Dar.   Faith,  Pock,   tis  a  joynt   I    would  be 
loath  to  loose  for  the  best  joynt  of  mutton  in  Italy. 

Ryn.  Would  such  a  scratch  as  this  hazard  a 430 
mans  head  ? 

Pock.  I,  byr-lady,  sir,  I  have  knowen  some 
have  lost  there  heads  for  a  lesse  matter,  I  can 
tell  you  ;  therefore,  sir,  you  must  keepe  good 
dyet :  if  you  please  to  come  home  to  my  house435 
till  you  be  perfectly  cur'd,  I  shall  have  the  more 
care  on  you. 

Val.  Thats  your  onely  course  to  have  it  well 
quickly. 

Pock.   By  what  time  would  he  have  it  well,  sir  ?  44° 

Dar.    A  very  necessary  question.    Canst  thou 
limit  the  time  ? 

Pock.  O,  sir,  cures  are  like  causes  in  law, 
which  may  be  lengthned  or  shortned  at  the  dis- 
cretion of  the  lawyer;  he  can  either  keepe  it 445 
greene  with  replications  or  rejoinders,  or  some- 
times skinne  it  faire  a'th  outside  for  fashion 
sake,  but  so  he  may  be  sure  'twill  breake  out 
againe  by  a  writt  of  error,  and  then  has  he  his 
suite  new  to  begin;  but  I   will   covenant   with 45° 

430  hazard.    Emend.  Co.    Qq,  hazards. 


74  ^l  i?OOle0  [Act  in. 

you,  that  by  such  a  time  He  make  your  head  as 
sound  as  a  bell;  I  will  bring  it  to  suppuration, and 
after  I  will  make  it  coagulate  and  growe  to  a 
perfect  cycatrice,  and  all  within  these  ten  dayes, 
so  you  keepe  a  good  dyet.  455 

Dar.  Well,  come,  Pock,  weele  taike  farther 
on  't  within  ;  it  drawes  neere  dinner  time,  what's 
a  clock,  boye  ? 

Page.   By  your  clock,  sir,  it  should  be  almost 
one,  for  your  head  rung  noone  some  halfe  houre46o 
agoe. 

Dar.   1st  true,  sir  ? 

Val.  Away,  let  him  alone ;  though  he  came 
in  at  the  window,  he  sets  the  gates  of  your  honor 
open,  I  can  tell  you.  465 

Dar.  Come  in,  Pock,  come,  apply ;  and   for 
this  deede 
lie  give  the  knave  a  wound  shall  never  bleed. 

Exeunt  all  but  Rindl^do~\  and  raler^io]. 

[/^a/.l    So,  sir,  I  thinke  this  knock  rings  lowd 
acquittance 
For  my  ridiculouse  — 

Ryn.  Well,   sir,  to  turne  our  heads  to  salve 

your  license,  47° 

Since  you  have  usd  the  matter  so  unwisely 
That  now  your  father  has  discern'd  your  humor 

Exeunt  all  hut.    Qq  put  this  sta^e-direction  after  1.  469. 
468  Val.    Emend,  ed.    Qcj  give  this  speech  to  Dariotto. 


Scene  L]  j^l  jfOOlCfi  75 

In  your  too  carelesse  usage  in  his  house, 

Your  wife  must  come  from  his  house  to  Anto- 

nios. 
And  he  to  entertaine  her  must  be  tould  475 

She  is  not  wife  to  his  Sonne,  but  to  you  : 
Which  newes  will  make  his  simple  wit  triumphe 
Over  your  father  ;  and  your  father,  thinking 
He  still  is  guld,  will  still  account  him  simple  : 
Come,  sir,  prepare  your  villanous  witt  to  faine   480 
A  kinde  submission  to  your  fathers  fury, 
And  we  shall  see  what  harty  policie 
He  will  discover  in  his  fained  anger, 
To  blinde  Antonios  eyes,  and  make  him  thinke 
He  thinkes  her  hartely  to  be  your  wife.  485 

Val.   O,   I    will    gull    him    rarely,    with    my 
wench 
Lowe  kneeling  at  my  heeles  before  his  furie. 
And  injury  shal  be  salv'd  with  injurie. 

488  shal  he.    Qq,  shalbe. 


Finis  Actus  j. 


Actus  4.    Scena  i. 

[^  Street  in  Florence  before  the  House  of  Gostanzo.'j 

Marc-Ant\onio'^,  Gostanzo. 

Marc.  Antonio.    You  see  how  too  much  wis- 

dome  evermore 
Out-shootes  the  truth  :   you  were  so   forwards 

still 
To  taxe  my  ignorance,  my  greene  experience 
In  these  grey  haires,  for  giving  such  advantage 
To  my  sonnes  spirit  that  he  durst  undertake  5 

A  secret  match  so  farre  short  of  his  woorth  : 
Your  Sonne  so  seasoned  with  obedience 
Even  from  his  youth  that  all  his  actions  relish 
Nothing  but  dutie  and  your  angers  feare. 
What  shall  I  say  to  you,  if  it  fall  out  10 

That  this    most    precious  sonne  of  yours    has 

plaide 
A  part  as  bad  as  this,  and  as  rebellious: 
Nay  more  has  grosely  guld  your  witt  withall  ? 
What  if  my  sonne  has  undergone  the  blame 
That  appertain'd  to  yours?  and  that  this  wench   15 
With  which  my  sonne  is  charg'd  may  call  you 

father  ? 
Shall  I  then  say  you  want  experience, 
Y'are  greene, y' are  credulous, easie  to  be  blinded? 


Scene  I.]  ^l  j^OOleSf  T] 

Gostanzo.    Ha,  ha,  ha, 
Good  Marc- Antonio,  when  't  comes  to  that         20 
Laugh  at  me,  call  me  foole,  proclaime  me  so. 
Let  all  the  world  take  knowledge  I  am  an  asse. 

Marc.    O  the  good  God  of  Gods, 
How  blinde  is  pride  ?    What  eagles  we  are  still 
In  matters  that  belong  to  other  men,  25 

What  beetles  in  our  owne  ?    I  tell  you.  Knight, 
It  is  confest  to  be  as  I  have  tould  you  ; 
And  Gratiana  is  by  young  Rinaldo 
And  your  white  sonne  brought  to  me  as  his  wife  : 
How  thinke  you  now,  sir  ? 

Gost.  Even  just  as  before,  30 

And  have  more  cause  to  thinke  honest  Credulity 
Is  a  true  loadstone  to  draw  on  Decrepity  : 
You  have  a  hart  to  open  to  imbrace 
All  that  your  eare  receives  :   alas,  good  man, 
All  this  is  but  a  plot  for  entertainment  35 

Within  your  house  ;  for  your  poore  sonnes  yong 

wife 
My  house  without  huge  danger  cannot  holde. 

Marc.   1st  possible  ?    What  danger,  sir,  I  pray  ? 

Gost.    He  tell  you,  sir;  twas  time  to  take  her 
thence : 
My  sonne  that  last  day  you  saw  could  not  frame  40 
His  lookes  to  entertaine  her,  now,  bir-lady ! 

19-22  Ha  .   .   .    asse.    So  arranged  by  Co.    Qq  print  this  as 
three  lines.    Ha  .   .  .   Antonio,  When  .    .    .   so,  Let  .    .  .   Asse. 


78  ai  ifOOleS;  [Act  IV. 

Is  grone  a  courtier  :   for  my  selfe,  unseene, 
Saw  when  he  courted  her,  imbrac't  and  kist  her, 
And,  I  can  tell  you,  left  not  much  undone 
That  was  the  proper  office  of  your  sonne.  45 

Marc.    What  world  is  this  ? 
Gost.  I  tolde  this  to  Rinaldo, 

Advising  him  to  fetch  her  from  my  house, 
And  his  yong  wit  not  knowing  where  to  lodge 

her 
Unlesse  with  you,  and  saw  that  could  not  be 
Without  some  wyle,  I  presently  suggested  50 

This  queint  devise,  to  say  she  was  my  sonnes : 
And  all  this  plot,  good  Marc-Antonio, 
Flow'd   from  this  fount  onely  to  blinde  [y]our 

eyes. 
Marc.    Out  of  how  sweete  a  dreame  have  you 

awak't  me  ? 
By  heaven,  I  durst  have  laid  my  part  in  heaven  55 
All  had  bin  true  ;   it  was  so  lively  handled. 
And  drawne  with  such  a  seeming  face  of  trueth  : 
Your  Sonne  had  cast  a  perfect  vaile  of  griefe 
Over  his  face,  for  his  so  rash  offence 
To  seale  his  love  with  act  of  marriage  60 

Before  his  father  had  subscrib'd  his  choyce ; 
My  Sonne  (my  circumstance  lessening  the  fact) 
Intreating  me  to  breake  the  matter  to  you, 
And,  joyning  my  effectual  perswasions 

53  your.    Emend.  Co.    Qq,  our. 


Scene  I.]  ^l  i^OOUfi!  79 

With  your  sonnes  penitent  submission,  65 

Appease  your  fury  ;   I  at  first  assented, 

And  now  expect  their  comming  to  that  purpose. 

Gost.  T'was  well,  t' was  well:  seeme  to  beleeve 
it  still. 
Let  art  end  what  credulitie  began  ; 
When  they  come,  suite  your  words  and  lookes 

to  theirs,  7° 

Second  my  sad  sonnes  fain'd  submission. 
And  see  in  all  points  how  my  braine  will  answere 
His  disguisde  griefe  with  a  set  countenance 
Of  rage  and  choller  ;  now  observe  and  learne 
To  schoole  your  sonne  by   me. 

Intrant  Rynaldo,  Val  \erio  and  ]  Grat  \iand\ . 

Marc.  On  with  your  maske  ;   75 

Here  come  the  other  maskers,  sir. 

Rynaldo.  Come  on,  I  say. 

Your  father  with  submission  wil  be  calm'd  ; 
Come  on  ;  downe  a  your  knees. 

Gost.  Villaine,  durst  thou 

Presume  to  gull  thy  father  ?   doost  thou  not 
Tremble  to  see  my  bent  and  cloudy  browes  ^o 

Ready  to  thunder  on  thy  gracelesse  head, 
And  with  the  bolt  of  my  displeasure  cut 
The  thred  of  all  my  living  from  thy  life. 
For  taking  thus  a  beggar  to  thy  wife  ? 

75-76    On  .    .    .    sir.    One  line  in  Qq.     -JJ  ivil  be.    Qq,  wilbe. 

77-78    Tour  father  .    .    .   k?iees.      One  line  in  Qq. 


80  ^l  i?00lrfl(  [Act  IV. 

Valeria.   Father,  if  that   part  I  have    in   your 
blood,  85 

If  teares  which  so  aboundantly  distill 
Out  of  my  inward  eyes,  and  for  a  neede, 
Can  drowne  these  outward  —  ^aside  to  Rynaldo'\ 

Lend  me  thy  hand-kercher.  — 
And  being  indeed  as  many  drops  of  blood 
Issuing  from  the  creator  of  my  hart,  90 

Be  able  to  beget  so  much  compassion 
Not  on  my  life,  but  on  this  lovely  dame. 
Whom  I  hold  dearer  — 

Gost.  Out  upon  thee,  villaine  ! 

Marc.   Nay,  good  Gostanzo,  thinke  you  are 

a  father. 
Gost.   I  will  not  heare  a  word  ;   out,  out,  upon 
thee !  95 

Wed  without  my  advise,  my  love,  my  knowledge, 
I,  and  a  begger  too,  a  trull,  a  blowse  ? 

Ryn.   [aside  to  Gostanzol.    You  thought  not  so 
last  day,  when  you  offerd  her 
A  twelve  months  boord   for  one  nights  lodging 
with  her, 
Gost.  \aside  to  Rynaldo'J  .    Goe  too,  no  more  of 
that,  peace,  good  Rinaldo  !  100 

It  is  a  fault  that  only  she  and  you  know. 

Ryn.   \_aside  to  Gostanzo'\.    Well,  sir,  go  on,  I 

pray. 
Gost.  Have  I,  fond  wretch. 


Scene  I]  01  ifOOleSf  8 1 

With  utmost  care  and  labour  brought  thee  up, 
Ever  instructing  thee,  omitting  never 
The  office  of  a  kinde  and  carefull  father,  105 

To  make  thee  wise  and  vertuous  like  thy  father; 
And  hast  thou  in  one  acte  everted  all, 
Proclaim'd  thy  selfe  to  all  the  world  a  foole, 
To  wedde  a  begger  ? 

Val.  Father,  say  not  so ! 

Gost.   Nay,  shees  thy  owne ;   here,  rise,  foole, 
take  her  to  thee,  no 

Live  with  her  still,  I  know  thou  countst  thy  selfe 
Happy  in  soule,  onely  in  winning  her : 
Be  happy  still ;  heere,  take  her  hand,  enjoy  her  ; 
Would  not  a  sonne  hazard  his  fathers  wrath, 
His  reputation  in  the  world,  his  birth-right,  115 

To  have  but  such  a  messe  of  broth  as  this  ? 

Marc.   Be  not  so  violent,  I   pray  you,  good 
Gostanzo, 
Take  truce  with  passion,  licence  your  sad  sonne 
To  speake  in  his  excuse. 

Gost.  What !   what  excuse  ? 

Can  any  orator  in  this  case  excuse  him  ?  120 

What  can  he  say  ?   what  can  be  said  of  any  ? 

Val.   Ahlas,  sir,  heare  me  !   all  that  I  can  say 
In  my  excuse  is  but  to  shew  loves  warrant. 

Gost.    \aside~\ .  Notable  wagge  ' 

Val.  I  know  1  have  committed 

109-116   Father.   .    .   this?     In  M  this  whole  passage  is  given 
to  Val.    Other  Qq  are  correct. 


82  ^lifOOlfS  [Act  IV. 

A  great  impiety  not  to  moove  you  first  125 

Before  the  dame  I  meant  to  make  my  wife. 

Consider  what  I  am,  yet  young  and  greene, 

Beholde  what  she  is  ;   is  there  not  in  her 

I,  in  her  very  eye,  a  power  to  conquer 

Even  age  it  selfe  and  wisdome  ?    Call  to  minde,i3o 

Sweete  father,  what  your  selfe  being  young  have 

bin  ; 
Thinke  what  you  may  be,  for  I  doe  not  thinke 
The  world  so  farre  spent  with  you  but  you  may 
Looke  back  on  such  a  beauty,  and  I  hope 
To  see  you  young  againe,  and  to  live  long  135 

With  young  affections  ;   wisdome  makes  a  man 
Live     young     for    ever  :     and     where     is    this 

wisdome 
If  not  in  you  ?      Ahlas,  I  know  not  what 
Rests  in  your  wisedome  to  subdue  affections, 
But  I  protest  it  wrought  with  me  so  strongly      140 
That  I  had  quite  bin  drownd  in  seas  of  teares 
Had  I  not  taken  hold  in  happy  time 
Of    this    sweete    hand ;     my    hart    had    beene 

consum'de 
T'a  heape  of  ashes  with  the  flames  of  love, 
Had  it  not  sweetly  bin  asswag'd  and  cool'd,         145 
With  the  moist  kisses  of  these  sugred  lippes. 
Gost.  \aside  to  Marc.'\ .   O,  puisant  wag,  what 

huge  large  thongs  he  cuts 
Out  of  his  friend  Fortunios  stretching  leather  ! 


Scene  I]  ^l  S^OOltS  83 

Marc,  [as'tde^.    He  knows  he  does  it  but  to 

blinde  my  eyes. 
Gost.    \aside~\.   O   excellent,   these   men   will 

put  up  any  thing.  150 

Val.   Had   I  not  had  her,  I  had  lost  my  life. 
Which  life  indeed  I  would  have  lost  before 
I  had  displeasd  you,  had  I  not  receav'd  it 
From     such    a    kinde,    a    wise,    and    honour'd 
father. 
Gost.    [aside^ .  Notable  boy  ! 
Val.  Yet  doe  I  here  renounce  155 

Love,  life,  and  all,  rather  then  one  houre  longer 
Indure  to  have  your  love  eclipsed  from  me. 
Gratiana.   O,  I  can  hold  no  longer;   if  thy 
words 
Be  us'd  in  earnest,  my  Valerio, 
Thou  woundst  my  hart,  but  I   know  tis  in  jest.  160 
Gost.  \aside~\ .  No,  He  be  sworne  she  has  her 

lyripoope  too. 
Gra.   Didst  thou  not  sweare  to  love  me  spight 
of  father 
And  all  the  world,  that  nought  should  sever  us 
But  death  it  selfe. 

Val.  I  did,  but  if  my  father 

Will  have  his  sonne  foresworne,  upon  his  soule  165 

160  tis     Emend.  Co.    Qq,  tist. 

162-164  Didst   .  .   .  father.    Qq  print  this:  D'idst  .   .   ,  -world 
(with  &  for  ^rid)  That  .   .    .   selfe.    J  .    .   .  father. 


84  311  i?00lCflI  [Act  IV. 

The  blood  of  my  black  perjurie  shall  lye, 
For  I  will  seeke  his  favour  though  I  dye. 

Gost.  No,  no,  live  still,  my  sonne  ;  thou  well 
shalt  know 
I  have  a  fathers  hart ;  come,  joyne  your  hands  ; 
Still  keepe  thy  vowes,  and  live  together  still         170 
Till  cruell  death  set  foote  betwixt  you  both. 

Val.    O,  speake  you  this  in  earnest  ? 

Gost.  I,  by  heaven  ! 

Val.   And  never  to  recall  it  ? 

Gost.  Not  till  death. 

Ryn.   Excellent  sir,  you  have  done  like  your 
selfe  ! 
What  would  you  more,  Valerio  ? 

Val.  Worshipfull  father  !  17s 

Ryn.   Come,  sir,  come  you   in,  and   celebrate 
your  joyes.         Exeunt  all  save  the  old  men. 

Gost.  O  Marc-Antonio, 
Had  I  not  armd  you  with  an  expectation. 
Would    not   this    make   you   pawne    your   very 

soule. 
The  wench  had  bin  my  sonnes  wife  ? 

Marc.  Yes,  by  heaven  !  180 

A  knaverie  thus  effected  might  deceive 
A  wiser  man  then  I,  for  I  ahlas. 
Am  noe  good  polititian,  plaine  beleeving, 
Simple  honesty,  is  my  policy  still. 

168   live   .    .    .   Sonne.    Query,  ti-ve  sti/l  my  sonne. 


Scene  I.]  ^l  ^00\t&  85 

Gost.  The  visible  markes  of  folly,  honesty,     185 
And  quick  credulitie,  his  yonger  brother. 
I  tell  you,  Marc-Antonio,  there  is  mutch 
In  that  young  boy,  my  sonne. 

Marc.  Not  much  honesty, 

If  I  may  speake  without  ofFence  to  his  father. 

Gost.   O  God,  you  cannot  please  me  better,  sir !  190 
H'as  honesty  enough  to  serve  his  turne. 
The  lesse  honesty  ever  the  more  wit. 
But  goe  you  home,  and  use  your  daughter  kindly, 
Meane  time  He  schoole  your  sonne  :   and  do  you 

still 
Dissemble  what  you  know,keepe  off  your  sonne;  195 
The  wench  at  home  must  still  be  my  sonnes  wife, 
Remember  that,  and  be  you  blinded  still. 

Marc.   You  must  remember,  too,  to  let  your 
sonne 
Use  his  accustomm'd  visitations, 
Onely  to  blinde  my  eyes. 

Gost.  He  shall  not  faile  :      ^oo 

But  still  take  you  heede,  have  a  vigilant  eye 
On  that  slie  childe  of  mine,  for  by  this  light, 
Heele  be  too  bould  with  your  sonnes  forhead  els. 

Marc.   Well,  sir,  let   me  alone.  He   beare  a 
braine. 

Exeunt  \_Marc.  Aiitonio  and  Gostanzo.'\ 

185-186    The  'visible   .    .    .    brother.    Qq  print  this  as  one  line. 
188-189   ^"^  much  .   .    .  father.    Qq  print  this  as  one  line. 


86  ^l  ifOOleg  [Act  IV. 

Enter  Valeria  \and'\  Rynaldo. 

Val.    Come,  they  are  gone. 

Ryn.  Gone,  they  were  farre  gone  heere.  205 

Val.   Guld  I  my  father,  or  guld  he  himselfe  } 
Thou  toldst  him  Gratiana  was  my  wife, 
I  have  confest  it,  he  has  pardoned  it. 

Ryn.   Nothing  more  true,  enow  can  witnesse 
it. 
And   therefore   when   he   comes   to   learne  the 

truth,  210 

(As  certainly  for  all  these  slie  disguises 
Time  will  strip  Truth  into  her  nakednesse), 
Thou  hast  good  plea  against  him  to  confesse 
The  honor'd  action,  and  to  claime  his  pardon. 

Val.  Tis  true,  for  all   was  done,  he  deeply 
swore,  215 

Out  of  his  hart. 

Ryn.  He  has  much  faith  the  whiles. 

That  swore  a  thing  so  quite  against  his  hart. 

Val.   Why,  this  is  pollicie. 

Ryn.  Well,  see  you  repaire, 

To  Gratiana  daily,  and  enjoy  her 
In  her  true  kinde  ;  and  now  we  must  expect      220 
The  resolute  and  ridiculous  divorce 
Cornelio  hath  sued  against  his  wedlock. 

Val.   I  thinke  it  be  not  so  ;   the  asse  dotes  on 
her. 

Ryn.  It  is  too  true,  and  thou  shalt  answere  it, 


Scene  1.]  gl  S^OO\t&  87 

For  setting  such  debate  twixt  man  and  wife  :      225 
See,  we  shall  see  the  solemne  maner  of  it. 
E/iier  Cor  [tielio] ,  Darioto,  Claud  [io] ,  Notarie,  Page, 
Gazetta,  Bell  [onora,  and'\   Gratiana. 

Bellonora.  Good  Signior  Cornelio,  let  us  poore 
gentlewomen  intreate  you  to  forbeare. 

Cornelio.   Talke  no  more  to  me.  He  not  be 
made  cuckold  in  my  owne  house:  Notarie,  read  230 
me  the  divorce. 

Ga-zetta.  My  deare  Cornelio,  examine  the 
cause  better  before  you  condemne  me. 

Cor.  Sing  to  me  no  more,  syren,  for  I  will  heare 
thee  no  more,  I  will  take  no  compassion  on  thee.  235 

Page.  Good  Signior  Cornelio,  be  not  too  man- 
kinde  against  your  wife  ;  say  y'are  a  cuckold  (as 
the  best  that  is  may  be  so  at  a  time)  will  you 
make  a  trumpet  of  your  owne  homes  ? 

Cor.   Goe  too,  sir,  y'are  a  rascall !  He  give 240 
you  a  fee  for  pleading  for  her  one  day.    Notary, 
doe  you  your  office. 

Val.  Goe  too,  Signior,  looke  better  to  your 
wife,  and  be  better  advised  before  you  grow  to 
this  extremitie.  ^45 

Cor.  Extremity?  go  too,  I  deale  but  too 
mercifully  with  her.  If  I  should  use  extremitie 
with  her,  I  might  hang  her  and  her  copesmate, 
my  drudge  here  ;  how  say  you  M  [aster]  Notary, 
might  I  not  doe  it  by  law  ?  *So 

249   Master  Notary.    Qq,  M.  Notary 


88  01  ifOOleS  [Act  IV. 

Notary.   Not   hang   am,  but   you    may   bring 
them  both  to  a  white  sheete. 

Cor.   Nay,  by  the  masse,  they  have  had  too 
much  of  the  sheete  already. 

Not.  And  besides  you  may  set  capitall  letters  255 
on  their  foreheads. 

Cor.  What's  that  to   the  capitall  letter  thats 
written  in  minde  ?  I  say  for  all  your  law,  Maister 
Notary,  that  I  may  hang  am  ;   may  I  not   hang 
him  that   robs  me  of  my  honour  as  well  as  he  260 
that  robs  me  of  my  horse  ? 

Not.   No,  sir,  your  horse  is  a  chattell ! 

Cor.   Soe  is  honour  :   a  man   may  buy  it  with 
his  peny,  and  if  I  may  hang  a  man   for  stealing 
my  horse  (as  I  say),  much  more  for  robbing  mee265 
of  my  honour ;  for  why  ?  if  my  horse  be  stolne, 
it  may  bee  my  owne  fault ;  for  why  ?  eyther  the 
stable  is   not  strong  enough,  or  the  pasture  not 
well   fenc't,  or  watcht,  or  so   foorth.      But   for 
your  wife  that  keepes  the  stable  of  your  honour,  270 
let  her  be  loclct  in  a  brazen  towre,  let  Argus 
himselfe  keepe  her,  yet  can  you  never  bee  secure 
of  your  honour  ;  for  why  ?  she  can  runne  through 
all   with  her  serpent  nodle :    besides   you   may 
hang  a  locke  upon  your  horse,  and  so  can  you  175 
not  upon  your  wife. 

Ryn.   But  I  pray  you,  sir,  what  are  the  pre- 

258   minde.    So  Qcj.    See  Notes,  p,  132, 


Scene  I.]  gl  jfoole0  89 

sumptfons    on    which     you    would    build    this 
divorce  ? 

Cor.  Presumption  enough,  sir,  for  besides  their28o 
entercourse,  or  commerce  of  glances  that  past 
betwixt  this  cockrill-drone  and  her  at  my  table 
the  last  Sunday  night  at  supper,  their  winckes, 
their  beckes, —  due  gard  !  —  their  treads  a'  the 
toe  (as  by  heaven  I  sweare  she  trode  once  upon  285 
my  toe  instead  of  his),  this  is  chiefly  to  be  noted  : 
the  same  night  she  would  needs  lie  alone,  and 
the  same  night  her  dog  barkt  —  did  you  not  heare 
him,  Valerio  ? 

Fal.   And  understand  him  too.  He  be  sworne29o 
of  a  booke. 

Cor.  Why,  very  good,  if  these  be  not  manifest 
presumptions  now,  let  the  world  be  judge. 
Therefore  without  more  ceremony,  Maister 
Notarie,  plucke  out  your  instrument.  295 

Not.   I  will,  sir,  if  there  be  no  remedie. 

Cor.  Have  you  made  it  strong  in  law,  Maister 
Notary  ?   have  you  put  in  words  enough  ? 

Not.  I  hope  so,  sir,  it  has  taken  me  a  whole 
skinne  of  parchment,  you  see.  300 

Cor.  Very  good,  and  is  "  egresse  "  and  "  re- 
gresse  "  in  ? 

Not.   He  warrant  you,  sir,  it  \s  forma  juris. 

Cor.  Is  there  no  hoale  to  be  found  in  the 
ortography  ?  305 


90  01  ifOOleSt  [Act  IV. 

Not.  None  in  the  world,  sir. 

Cor,  You  have  written  Sunt  with  an  5,  have 
you  not .? 

Not.  Yes,  that  I  have. 

Cor.  You  have  done  the  better  for  quietnesse3io 
sake :    and   are   none  of  the   autenticall   dashes 
over  the  head  left  out  ?    If  there  be,  Maister 
Notary,  an  error  will  lye  [on't] . 

Not.   Not  for  a  dashe  over  head,  sir,  I  warrant 
you,  if   I    should  oversee  j    I   have    seene    that  315 
tryed  in  Butiro  &  Caseo,  in   Butler  and  Casons 
case,  decimo  sexto  of  Duke  Anonimo. 

Ryn.   Y'  ave  gotten  a  learned  Notarie,  Signior 
Cornelio. 

Cor.   Hees  a  shroad  fellow  indeed ;   I  had  as  320 
leeve   have  his  head  in  a  matter  of  fellony  or 
treason   as  any  notary  in  Florence.    Read  out, 
Maister  Notary  j  harken  you,  mistresse  ;  gentle- 
men, marke,  I  beseech  you. 

0?nnes.   We  will  all   marke  you,  sir,  I    war- 325 
rant  you. 

Not.   I  thinke  it  would  be  something  tedious  to 
read  all,  and  therfore,  gentlemen,  the  summe  is 
this  :    That  you,  Signior  Cornelio,  gentleman, 
for   divers  &   sundry  waighty  and  mature   con- 330 
siderations,  you    especially   moving,   specifying 

313  ont.    Suggested  by  O.  G.  (Octavius  Gilchrist)  in  footnote  to 
Co.    Qq,  out. 


Scene  I]  ^l  j^OOlC0  91 

all  the  particulars  of  your  wives  enormities  in 
a  scedule  hereunto  annexed,  the  transcript 
whereof  is  in  your  owne  tenure,  custodie,  occu- 
pation, Si.  keeping:  That  for  these  the  aforesaid 335 
premises,  I  say,  you  renounce,  disclaime,  and 
discharge  Gazetta  fro  being  your  leeful,  or  your 
lawfull,  wife  :  And  that  you  eftsoones  devide, 
disjoyne,  seperate,  remove,  &  finally  eloigne, 
sequester,  &  divorce  her,  fro  your  bed  &  your  340 
boord  :  That  you  forbid  her  all  accesse,  repaire, 
egresse,  or  regresse,  to  your  person  or  persons, 
mansion  or  mansions,  dwellings,  habitations,  re- 
mainenances,  or  abodes,  or  to  any  shop,  sellar, 
sollar,  easements  chamber,  dormer,  and  so  forth,  345 
now  in  the  tenure,  custody,  occupation,  or  keep- 
ing of  the  said  Cornelio ;  notwithstanding  all 
former  contracts,  covenants,  bargaines,  condi- 
tions, agreements,  compacts,  promises,  vowes, 
affiances,  assurances,  bonds,  billes,  indentures,  350 
pole-deedes,  deeds  of  guift,  defesances,  feoff- 
ments, endowments,  vowchers,  double  vowch- 
ers,  privie  entries,  actions,  declarations,  explica- 
tions, rejoinders,  surrejoinders,  rights,  interests, 
demands,  claymes,  or  titles  whatsoever,  hereto- 355 
fore  betwixt  the  one  and  the  other  party,  or 
parties,  being  had,  made,  past,  covenanted  & 
agreed,  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  till  the 
day  of  the  date  hereof,  given  the  17.  of  Novem- 


92  ^l  i?OOle0  [Act  IV. 

ber  1500  and  so  forth.    Here,  sir,  you  must  set  360 
to  your  hand. 

Cor.  What  els,  Maister  Notary  ?    I  am  reso- 
lute, ifaith. 

Gaz.  Sweete  husband,  forbeare. 

Cor.  Avoyde,  I  charge  thee  in  the  name  of  3^5 
this  divorce :  thou  mightst  have  lookt  to  it  in 
time,  yet  this  I  will  doe  for  thee  ;  if  thou  canst 
spie  out  any  other  man  that  thou  wouldest  cuck- 
olde,  thou  shalt  have  my  letter  to  him  :  I  can  do 
no  more.  More  inke,  Maister  Notary,  I  wright37o 
my  name  at  large. 

A^^^.   Here  is  more,  sir. 

Cor.  Ah,  asse,  that  thou  could  not  know  thy 
happinesse  till  thou  hadst  lost  it !  How  now  ? 
my  nose  bleed?  shall  I  write  in  blood  ?  what, 375 
onely  three  drops  ?  Sfoote  thi's  ominous  :  I 
will  not  set  my  hand  toot  now  certaine.  Mais- 
ter Notary,  I  like  not  this  abodement  :  I  will 
deferre  the  setting  too  of  my  hand  till  the  next 
court  day:  keepe  the  divorce,  I  pray  you,  ands^o 
the  woman  in  your  house  together. 

Omnes.   Burne  the  divorce,  burne  the  divorce  ! 

Cor.   Not  so,  sir,  it  shall  not  serve  her  turne. 
M  [aster]  Notary,  keep  it  at  your  perill,  &,  gen- 
tlemen, you  may  be  gone,  a  Gods  name  j  what  3^5 
have  you  to  doe  to  flocke  about  me  thus  ?    I  am 

384  Master  Notary.   Qq,  M.  Notary. 


Scene  I]  ^l  S^OOltS  93 

neither  howlet,  nor  cuckooe.  Gentlewomen,  for 
Gods  sake,  medle  with  your  owne  cases,  it  is 
not  fit  you  should  haunt  these  publike  assembles. 

Omnes.   Well,  farewell,  Cornelio.  390 

Val.  Use  the  gentlewoman  kindely,  Maister 
Notary. 

[A^(7/.]    As  mine  owne  wife,  I  assure  you,  sir. 
Exeunt  \_iill  but  Cornelio  and  Claudio~\ . 

Clau.  Signior  Cornelio,  I  canot  but  in  kinde- 
nestell  you  that  Valerio  by  counsaile  of  Rinaldo395 
hath  whispered  all  this  jealosie  into  your  eares  ; 
not  that  he  knew  any  just  cause  in  your  wife, 
but  only  to  be  revengd  on  you  for  the  gull  you 
put  upon  him  when  you  drew  him  with  his 
glory  to  touch  the  theorbo.  400 

Cor.   May  I  beleeve  this  ? 

Clau.  As  I  am  a  gentleman  :  and  if  this  acci- 
dent of  your  nose  had  not  falne  out,  I  would 
have  told  you  this  before  you  set  too  your  hand. 

Cor.   It  may  well  be,  yet  have  I  cause  enough  405 
To  perfect  my  divorce,  but  it  shall  rest 
Till  I  conclude  it  with  a  counterbuffe 
Given  to  these  noble  rascals  :   Claudio,  thankes  : 
What    comes   of  this,  watch  but  my  braine  a 
little, 

393   Not.    Emend.  S.    Qq  assign  this  speech  to  Fal. 
395    Valerio.    Emend.  Co.    Qq,  Balerio,  which  misled  Do.  into 
printing  Bdlanora. 


94  ^l  i?OOle0  [Act  IV. 

And  yee  shall  see,  if  like  two  partes  in  me  410 

I  leave  not  both  these  gullers  wits  imbrierd ; 
Now  I  perceive  well  where  the  wilde  winde  sits, 
Heres  gull  for  gull  and  wits  at  warre  with  wits. 
Exeunt  \_Claudio  and  Corne/io.'j 


Actus  Quinti  Scena  Prima. 

[^  Street  in  Florence.'^ 

Rinaldo  solus. 

\Rynaldo.'\   Fortune,  the  great  commandresse 
of  the  world, 
Hath  divers  wayes  to  advance  her  followers  : 
To  some  she  gives  honour  without  deserving, 
To  other  some  deserving  without  honour. 
Some  wit,  some  wealth,  and  some  wit   without 

wealth,  5 

Some   wealth  without  wit,  some   nor    wit  nor 

wealth. 
But  good  smocke-faces,  or  some  qualities 
By  nature  without  judgement,  with  the  which 
They  live  in  sensuall  acceptation. 
And  make  show  onely,  without  touche  of  sub- 
stance. lO 
My  fortune  is  to  winne  renowne  by  gulling. 
Gostanzo,  Darioto,  and  Cornelio, 
All  which  suppose  in  all  their  different  kindes 
Their  witts  entyre,  and  in  themselves  no  piece. 
All  at  one  blow,  my  helmet  yet  unbruisde,            is 
I  have  unhorst,  laid  flat  on  earth  for  guls. 
Now  in  what  taking  poore  Cornelio  is 

\\  gulling.    Qq,  comma  after  ^a///«|-.    I  z  Qq,  period  after  Corne//o. 


96  ^l  i?00leg  [Act  V. 

Betwixt  his  large  divorce  and  no  divorce, 

I  long  to  see,  and  what  he  will  resolve : 

I  lay  my  life  he  cannot  chew  his  meate,  20 

And  lookes  much  like  an  ape   had   swallowed 

pilles  ; 
And  all  this  comes  of  bootelesse  jealousie  : 
And  see  where  bootelesse  jealousie  appeares. 

Etiter  Cornel  [/<?] . 
He  bourd  him  straight ;  how  now,  Cornelio  ? 
Are  you  resolv'd  on  the  divorce,  or  no  ?  25 

Cornelio.   What 's  that  to  you  ?    looke  to  your 
owne  affaires. 
The  time  requires  it ;  are  you  not  engag'd 
In  some  bonds  forfeit  for  Valerio  ? 

Ryn.   Yes,  what  of  that  ? 

Cor.  Why,  so  am  I  my  selfe  ; 

And  both  our  dangers  great ;    he  is  arrested  30 

On  a  recognizance  by  a  usuring  slave. 

Ryn.   Arrested  ?    I  am  sorry  with  my  hart. 
It  is  a  matter  may  import  me  much  ; 
May   not  our  bayle  suffize  to  free  him,  thinke 


you 


Cor.   I    thinke    it    may,  but    I   must  not    be 

scene  in't,  35 

Nor  would  I  wish  you,  for  we  both  are  parties. 
And  liker  farre  to  bring  our  selves  in  trouble 
Then  beare  him  out :   I  have  already  made 
Meanes  to  the  officers  to  sequester  him 


Scene  I]  ^l  foOltH  97 

In  private  for  a  time,  till  some  in  secret  40 

Might  make  his  father  understand  his  state, 
Who  would  perhaps  take  present  order  for  him 
Rather  then  suffer  him  t'endure  the  shame 
Of  his  imprisonment.     Now,  would  you  but  goe 
And  breake  the  matter  closely  to  his  father,  45 

(As  you  can  wisely  doo  't)  and  bring  him  to  him, 
This  were  the  onely  way  to  save  his  credit. 
And  to  keepe  off  a  shrowd  blow  from  our  selves. 

Ryu.   I  know  his  father  will  be  moov'd  past 
measure. 

Cor.   Nay,  if   you  stand  on   such  nice  cere- 
monies, 5° 
Farewell  our  substance  :   extreame  diseases 
Aske  extreame  remedies,  better  he  should  storme 
Some  little  time  then  we  be  beate  for  ever 
Under  the  horred  shelter  of  a  prison, 

Ryn.   Where  is  the  place  ? 

Cor.  Tis  at  the  Halfe  Moone  Taverne ;  55 

Hast,  for  the  matter  will  abide  no  staye. 

Ryn.   Heaven   send   my  speed  be  equall  with 
my  hast.  Exit  [_Rynaldo]. 

Cor.   Goe,  shallow  scholler,  you  that  make 
all  guls, 
You  that  can  out-see  cleere-ey'd  jeolousie. 
Yet  make  this  slight  a  milstone,  where  your  braine  60 
Sticks  in   the  midst  amazd.       This  gull  to  him 
And  to  his  fellow  guller  shall  become 


98  ^li?oole0  [actv. 

More  bitter  then  their  baiting  of  my  humour : 
Heere  at  this  taverne  shall  Gostanzo  finde 
Fortunio,  Darioto,  Claudio,  65 

And  amongst  them,  the  ringleader,  his  sonne. 
His  husband,  and  his  Saint  Valerio, 
That  knowes  not  of  what  fashion  dice  are  made, 
Nor  ever  yet  lookt  towards  a  red  lettice, 
(Thinkes  his  blinde  sire),  at  drinking  and  at  dice,  70 
With  all  their  wenches,  and  at  full  discover 
His  owne  grose  folly  and  his  sonnes  distempers; 
And  both  shall  know,  (although  I  be  no  schol- 
ar) 
Yet  I  have  thus  much  Latin  as  to  say 
'Jam  sumus  ergo  pares.  Exit  [^Cornelio^.   75 

[ScENA  Secunda. 

A  Room  in  the  Half  Moon  Tavern. "^ 

Enter  Valerio,  Fortunio,  Claudio,  Page,  Grat  [iana"] , 
Gazetta,  [and~\  Bellanora.  A  Drawer  or  two, 
setting  a  table. 

Valeria.  Set  me  the  table  heere,  we  will  shift 
roomes 
To  see  if  Fortune  will  shift  chances  with  us  : 
Sit,  ladies,  sit ;  Fortunio,  place  thy  wench, 
And,  Claudio,  place  you  Dariotos  mistresse. 
I  wonder  where  that  neate  spruce  slave  becomes :     5 

71  With  all.    Qq,  Withall. 


Scene  H]  ^l  jfoOleflf  99 

I  thinke  he  was  some  barbers  sonne,by  th'  masse ; 

Tis  such  a  picked  fellow,  not  a  haire 

About  his  whole  bulke  but  it  stands  in  print, 

Each  pinne  hath  his  due  place,  not  any  point 

But  hath  his  perfect  tie,  fashion,  and  grace ;  ro 

A  thing  whose  soule  is  specially  imployde 

In  knowing  where   best  gloves,  best   stockings, 

wasecotes 
Curiously  wrought,  are  solde ;   sacks  milleners 

shops 
For  all  new  tyres  and  fashions,  and  can  tell  yee 
What  new  devices  of  all  sorts  there  are,  ^5 

And  that  there  is  not  in  the  whole  R'lalto 
But  one  new-fashion'd  wast-cote,  or  one  night- 
cap. 
One  paire  of  gloves,  pretty  or  well  perfum'd ; 
And  from  a  paire  of  gloves  of  halfe  a  crowne 
To  twenty  crownes  will  to  a  very  scute  20 

Smell  out  the  price  :   and  for  these  womanly  parts 
He  is  esteem'd  a  witty  gentleman. 

Fortunio.  See,  where  he  comes. 
Enter   Darioto. 

Dariotto.  God  save  you,  lovely  ladies. 

Val.   I,  well  said,  lovely  Paris,  your  wall  eye 
Must  ever  first  be  gloting  on  mens  wives;  25 

You  thinke  to  come  upon  us,  being  halfe  drunke, 
And  so  to  part  the  freshest  man  amongst  us ; 
But  you  shall  over-take  us,  He  be  sworne. 


100  ^lifoolesf  [actv. 

Dar.  Tush,  man,  where  are  your  dice  ?  Lets 

fall  to  them. 
Claudio.    We  have  bin  at  am.    Drawer,  call 

for  more.  3° 

Val.    First  lets  have  wine,  dice   have  no  per- 
fect edge 
Without  the  liquid  whetstone  of  the  sirrope. 
For.    True,  and   to   welcome   Darioto's  late- 
nes. 
He  shall  (unpledg'd)  carouze  one  crowned  cup 
To  all  these  ladies  health. 

Dar.  I  am  well  pleasd.        35 

Val.    Come  on,  let  us  varie  our  sweete  time 
With  sundry  excercises.    Boy,  tabacco  ! 
And,  drawer,  you  must  get  us  musique  too  ; 
Calls  in  a  cleanly  noyse,  the  slaves  grow  lowzy. 
Drawer.    You  shall  have  such  as  we  can  get 

you,  sir.  Exit  \_Drawer'\.   4° 

Dar.   Let's  have  some  dice,  I  pray  thee :  they 

are  clenly. 
Val.    Page,  let  mee  see  that  leafe  ! 
Page.  It  is  not  leafe,  sir, 

Tis  pudding  cane  tabacco. 

Val.  But  I  meane 

Your  linstock,  sir,  what  leafe  is  that,  I  pray  ? 
Page.    I  pray  you  see,  sir,  for  I  cannot  read.    45 

42-44   //  is  .  .  .  pray.    Qq  print  this  as  2  11.  :    It   is  .  .  .    Ta- 
bacco !   But  I  .   .  .  pray. 


Scene  II.]  ^\  S^00it&  10 1 

ral.    Sfoote,  a  rancke  stincking  satyre ;  this 
had  been 
Enough  to  have  poysned  everie  man  of  us. 
Dar.    And  now  you  speake  of  that,  my  boy 
once  lighted 
A  pipe  of  cane  tabacco  with  a  peece 
Of  a  vild  ballad,  and  He  sweare  I  had  5° 

A  singing  in  my  head  a  whole  weeke  after. 
Fa/.    Well,  th'  old  verse  is,  J  potibus  incipe 
to-c-um . 

Euter  Drazaer  with  wine  and  a  cupp. 
Drawer,  fill  out  this  gentlemans  carowse. 
And  harden  him  for  our  societie. 

Dar.    Well,  ladies,  heere  is  to  your  honourd 

healths.  55 

For.   What,  Dariotto,  without  hat  or  knee  ? 
Vol.    Well  said,  Fortunio.    O,  y'are  a   rare 
courtier ! 
Your  knee,  good  signior,  I  beseech  your  knee. 
Dar.    Nay,  pray  you,  lets  take  it  by  degrees, 
Valerio  ;  on  our  feete  first,  for  this  6o 

Will  bring's  too  soone  upon  our  knees. 

Val.  Sir,  there 

Are  no  degrees  of  order  in  a  taverne  ; 
Heere  you  must,  I  charge  yee,  runne  all  a  head  ; 

59-62   Q  prints  this  as  three  lines  of  prose  :  Nay  .  .  .  our  |  feete 
.  .  knees.  |  Sir  .  .  .  ta'verne. 
63  charge.    Emend.  S.    Qq,  chargd. 


102  ^lifOOlefl!  [ActV. 

Slight,  courtier,  downe  ; 

I  hope  you  are  no  elephant,  you  have  joynts!       65 
Dar.  Well,  sir,  heere's  to  the  ladies  on   my 

knees. 
Val.    He  be  their  pledge. 

Enter  Gostanzo  atid  Rinaldo  \_behind~\  . 
For.  Not  yet,  Valerio, 

This  hee  must  drinke  unpledgd. 

Val.    He  shall   not,  I  will  give  him  this  ad- 
vantage. 
Gostanxo  [aside].    How  now?   whats  heere  ? 

are  these  the  officers  ?  7° 

Rynaldo  [aside]  .  Slight,  I  would  all  were  well. 

Enter  Cornelia  [behi?id'\  . 

Val.  Heere  is  his  pledge  : 

Heere's  to  our  common  friend  Cornelioes  health. 

[Z)<7r.]     Health   to   Gazetta,   poyson  to  her 

husband  !  He  kneeles. 

Cornelio  [aside] .  Excellent  guestes  :  these  are 

my  dayly  guestes. 
Val.    Drawer,  make  even  th'  impartiall  skales 

of  Justice,  75 

Give  it  to  Claudio,  and  from  him  fill  round. 
Come,  Darioto,  sett  mee,  let  [the]  rest 
Come  in  when  they  have  done  the  ladyes  right. 
Gost.    [aside]  .    "  Sett  me  "  !   Doe  you  know 
what  belongs  to  setting  ? 

73   Dar.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  Clau.    See  Notes,  p.  136. 
77  the.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  mee.    See  Notes,  p.  136. 


Scene  II.]  £1  i?OOlf0  IO3 

Ryn.  [aside^ .    What  a  dull  slave  was  I  to  be 

thus  gull'd  ?  80 

Cor.  \aside  to  Rynaldo~\ .    Why,  Rinald,  what 
meant  you  to  intrap  your  friend, 
And  bring  his  father  to  this  spectacle  ? 
You  are  a  friend  in  deed  ! 

Ryn.  Tis  verie  good,  sir; 

Perhaps  my  friend,  or  I,  before  wee  part. 
May  make  even  with  you. 

For.  Come,  lets  sett  him  round.   85 

Fal.    Doe  so  :   at  all !    A  plague  upon  these 
dice. 
Another  health  !    Sfoote,  I  shall  have  no  lucke 
Till  I  be  druncke  :  come  on,  heere's  to  the  com- 
fort 
The  cavalier,  my  father,  should  take  in  mee 
If  he  now  saw  mee  and  would  do  me  right.  9° 

For.    He  pledge  it,  and  his  health,  Valerio. 
Gost.  laside'\.    Heere's  a  good  husband. 
Ryn.   \aside  to  Gostanzo'j .  I  pray  you 

have  patience,  sir. 
Fal.    Now  have  at  all,  an  'twere  a  thousand 

pound. 
Gost.  [advancing'j.    Hold,  sir !  I  barr  the  dice. 
Fal.  What,  sir,  are  you  there  ? 

Fill's  a  fresh  pottle  !  by  this  light.  Sir  Knight,     95 
You  shall  do  right. 

Enter  Marc.  Ant  \oni6\ . 
Gost.  O  thou  ungratious  villaine. 


104  aiifoolefif  [actv. 

\Vol.'\     Come,  come,  wee  shall  have  you  now 
thunder  foorth 
Some  of  your  thriftie  sentences,  as  gravely: 
"  For  as  much,  Valerius,  as  every  thing  has  time, 
and  a  pudding  has  two;  yet  ought  not  satisfac-ioo 
tion  to  swerve  so  much  from  defalcation  of  well 
dispos'd  people  as  that  indemnitie  should  preju- 
dice  what  securitie   doth   insinuate."    A  tryall, 
yet  once  againe. 

Marc.   Heere's  a  good  sight !    Y'are  well  en- 

countred,  sir ;  105 

Did  I  not  tell  you  you  'd  oreshoote  your  selfe 
With  too  much  wisedome  ? 

Val.  Sir,  your  wisest  do  so. 

Fill  the  old  man  some  wine. 

Gost.  Heere's  a  good  infant  ! 

Marc.    Why,  sir?    Ahlas,  He  wager  with  your 
wisedome 
His  consorts  drew  him  to  it,  for  of  him  selfe      1 10 
He  is  both  vertuous,  bashfull,  innocent ; 
Comes  not  at  cittie  ;   knowes  no  cittie  art, 
But    plies  your  husbandrie ;  dares    not   view  a 
wench. 

Val.    Father,  hee  comes  upon  you, 

Gost.  Heere's  a  Sonne  ! 

Marc.    Whose    wife    is    Gratiana    now,    I 

pray  ?  1 15 

97    Fal.    Emend.  S     Qq  assign  this  speech  to  Gostanzo. 


Scene  II.]  01  jfOOlf  S!  IO5 

Gost.    Sing    your   old    song    no    more,   your 
bralne's  too  short 
To  reach  into  these  pollicies. 

Marc.  Tis  true, 

Mine  eye's  soone  blinded  :  and  your  selfe  would 

say  so, 
If  you  knew  all.    Where  lodg'd  your  sonne  last 

night  ? 
Doe  you  know  that  with  all  your  pollicie  ?  120 

Gost.    Youle  say  he  lodg'd  with  you,  and  did 
not  I 
Foretell  you  all  this  must  for  cullour  sake 
Be  brought  about,  onely  to  blinde  your  eyes  ? 
Marc.    By  heaven,  I  chaunc't  this   morne,  I 
know  not  why. 
To  passe  by  Gratianas  bed-chamber,  125 

And  whom  saw  I  fast  by  her  naked  side 
But  your  Valerio  ? 

Gost.  Had  you  not  warning  given  ? 

Did  I  not  bidd  you  watch  my  courtier  well. 
Or  hee  would  set  a  crest  a  your  sonnes  head  ? 
Marc.    That  was  not  all,  for  by  them  on   a 

stoole  130 

My  sonne  sate  laughing  to  see  you  so  gull'd. 
Gost.    Tis  too  too  plaine  ! 
Marc.  Why,  sir,  do  you  suspect  it 

The  more  for  that  ? 

118   eye's.    Emend.  S.    Qq,  eyes. 

132-133    Why,  sir  .   .    .    that.    Q  prints  as  one  line. 


io6  ^l  i?oolr0  [actv. 

Gost.  Suspect  it  ?    Is  there  any 

So  grosse  a  wittoll  as,  if  t'were  his  wife, 
Would  sit  by  her  so  tamelie  ? 

Marc.  Why  not,  sir,      ns 

To  blind  my  eyes  ? 

Gost.  Well,  sir,  I  was  deceiv'd. 

But  I  shall  make  it  proove  a  deare  deceipt 
To  the  deceiver. 

Ryn.  Nay,  sir,  lets  not  have 

A  new  infliction  set  on  an  old  fault : 
Hee  did  confesse  his  fault  upon  his  knees,  140 

You  pardned  it,  and  swore  twas  from  your  hart. 

Gost.  Swore,  a  great  peece  of  worke  !    The 
wretch  shall  know 
I  have  a  daughter  heere  to  give  my  land  too  ; 
He  give  my  daughter  all  :   the  prodigall 
Shall  not  have  one  poore  house  to  hide  his  head 

in.  145 

For.   I  humblie  thanke  you,  sir,  and  vow  all 
duetie 
My  life  can  yeelde  you. 

Gost.  Why  are  you  so  thankfull  ? 

For.  For  giving  to  your  daughter  all  your  lands. 
Who  is  my  wife,  and  so  you  gave  them  mee. 

Gost.   Better  and  better  ! 

For.  Pray,  sir,  be  not  moov'd  ;  15° 

You  drew  mee  kindlie  to  your  house,  and  gave  mee 

135-136  ff^Ay  not  .    .    .   eyes.   Qq  print  this  as  one  line. 


Scene  II.]  ^l  ifOOUtf  10? 

Accesse  to  woe  your  daughter,  whom  I  lov'd. 
And  since  (by  honord  mariage)  made  my  wife. 

Gost.   Now  all  my    choller  flie  out   in   your 
witts  : 
Good  trickes  of  youth,  y'faith,  no  indecorum,     155 
Knights  Sonne,  knights  daughter  ;   Marc.  An- 
tonio, 
Give  mee  your  hand,  there  is  no  remedie, 
Mariage  is  ever  made  by  destenie. 

\_All  applaud.'] 

Ryn.    Scilence,  my    maisters,  now    heere   all 
are  pleas'd, 
Onelie  but  Cornelio,  who  lackes  but  perswasion  160 
To  reconcile  himselfe  to  his  faire  wife  : 
Good  sir,  will  you  (of  all  men  our  best  speaker) 
Perswade  him  to  receive  her  into  grace? 

Gost.  That  I  will  gladlie,  and  he  shal  be  rul'd. 
Good  Cornelio,  I   have  heard  of  your  wayward  165 
jelosie,  and  I  must  tell  you  plaine  as  a  friend, 
y'are  an  asse,  —  you  must  pardon  me,  I  knew 
your  father  — 

Ryn.  Then  you  must  pardon  him  indeed,  sir. 

Gost.   Understand   mee:     put  case    Dariottoiyo 
lov'd    your  wife,  whereby  you  would  seeme  to 
refuse  her ;   would  you  desire  to  have    such   a 
wife  as  no  man  could  love  but  your  selfe  ? 

164  shal  be.    Qq,  shalbe. 

165  Good  Cornelio.    gq  print  as  last  words  of  1.   164. 


io8  0li?OOle0  [ActV. 

Marc.   Answere  but  that,  Cornelio. 

Gost.   Understand  mee  :  say  Dariotto  hath  kistiys 
your  wife,  or  perform'de  other  offices  of  that  na- 
ture, whereby  they  did  converse  togeather  at  bedd 
and  at  boord,  as  friendes  may  seeme  to  doe  — 

Marc.   Marke     but    the    "Now    understand 

mee"!  i8o 

Gost.  Yet  if  there  come  no  proofes  but  that 
her  actions  were  cleanlie,  or  in  discreete  private, 
why  t'was  a  signe  of  modestie  :  and  will  you 
blow  the  home  your  selfe,  when  you  may  keepe 
it  to  your  selfe  ?  Goe  to,  you  are  a  foole,  under- 185 
stand  mee ! 

Val.   Doe  understand  him,  Cornelio. 

Gost.  Nay,  Cornalio,  I  tell  you  againe,  I  knew 
your  father  ;  hee  was  a  wise  gentleman,  and  so 
was  your  mother:  mee  thinkes  I  see  her  yet,  a  190 
lustie  stoute  woman,  bore  great  children,  —  you 
were  the  verie  skundrell  of  am  all  ;  but  let  that 
passe.  As  for  your  mother,  shee  was  wise,  a 
most  flippant  tongue  she  had,  and  could  set  out 
her  taile  with  as  good  grace  as  any  shee  in  Flor-igs 
ence,  come  cut  and  long-tayle  ;  and  she  was 
honest  enough  too.  But  yet,  by  your  leave, 
she  would  tickle  Dob  now  and  then  as  well  as 
the  best  on  am ;  by  Jove,  it's  true,  Cornelio,  I 
speake  it  not  to  flatter  you  :   your  father  knew  it  200 

182  in  discreete.    Emend    ed.    Qq,  indiscreete. 


Scene  II.]  ^l  jPOOleflf  IO9 

well  enough,  and  would  he  do  as  you  do,  thinke 
you  ?  set  rascalles  to  undermine  her  or  looke  to 
her  water,  (as  they  say)  ?  No,  when  he  saw 
twas  but  her  humour  (for  his  owne  quietnesse 
sake)  hee  made  a  backe-doore  to  his  house  for  205 
convenience,  gott  a  bell  to  his  fore  doore,  and 
had  an  odd  fashion  in  ringing  by  which  shee  and 
her  mayde  knew  him,  and  would  stand  talking 
to  his  next  neighbour  to  prolong  time,  that  all 
thinges  might  be  ridde  clenly  out  a  the  way  be- 210 
fore  he  came,  for  the  credite  of  his  wife.  This 
was  wisedome  now  for  a  mans  owne  quiet. 

Marc.   Heere  was  a  man,  Cornelio! 

Gost.  What,  I  say  !     Young  men  thinke  old 
men  are   fooles,  but  old  men  know  young  men  215 
are  fooles. 

Cor.  Why,  harke  you,  you  two  knights  ;   doe 
you  thinke  I  will  forsake  Gazetta  ? 

Gost.  And  will  you  not  ? 

Cor.   Why   theer 's  your  wisedome;   why  did 2^0 
I  make  shew  of  divorce,  thinke  you  ? 

Marc.   Pray  you  why,  sir  ? 

Cor.  Onelie  to  bridle  her  stout  stomack : 
and  how  did  I  draw  on  the  cullour  for  my  di- 
vorce ?  I  did  traine  the  woodcocke  Dariotto  225 
into  the  net,  drew  him  to  my  house,  gave  him 
opportunitie  with  my  wife  (as  you  say  my  father 
dealt  with  his  wives  friendes)  onely  to  traine  him 


no  aiifOOle0  [AcrV. 

in  :   let    him  alone  with   my   wife  in   her   bed- 
chamber;  and    sometimes    founde   him   a   bedd^so 
with  her,  and  went  my  way  backe  again  soft- 
lie,  onelie  to  draw  him  into  the  pitte. 

Gost.  This  was  well  handled  in  deed,  Cornelio. 

Marc.   I,   marrie,  sir,  now  I  commend  your 
wisedome. 

Cor.  Why,  if  I  had  been  so  minded  as  you  235 
thinke,  I  could  have  flung  his  pantable  downe 
the  staires,  or  doone  him  some  other  disgrace  : 
but  I  winckt  at  it,  and  drew  on  the  good  foole 
more  and  more,  onelie  to  bring  him  within  my 
compasse.  240 

Gost.   Why,  this  was  pollicie  in  graine. 

Cor.  And  now  shal  the  world  see  I  am  as 
wise  as  my  father. 

Fal.     Is  't  come  to  this  ?  then  will  I  make  a 
speech  in  praise  of  this  reconcilement,  including  245 
therein  the  praise  and  honor  of  the  most   fash- 
ionable and  autenticall  HORNE  :   stande  close, 
gentles,  and  be  silent.  He  gets  into  a  chaire. 

Gost.  Come  on,  lets  heare  his  wit  in  this  pot- 
able humour.  250 

Val.  The  course  of  the  world  (like  the  life 
of  man)  is  said  to  be  devided  into  severall  ages  : 
as  wee  into  infancie,  childhood,  youth,  and  so 
forward  to  old-age ;  so  the  world  into  the 
golden  age,  the    silver,  the  brasse,  the   iron,  the 255 


Scene  II]  01  ifOOlCS  1 1 1 

leaden,  the  wooden  ;  and  now  into  this  present 
age,  which  wee  tearme  the  horned  age  :  not  that 
but  former  ages  have  injoyde  this  benefite  as 
well  as  our  times  ;  but  that  in  ours  it  is  more 
common,  and  neverthelesse  pretious.  It  is  said  260 
that  in  the  golden  age  of  the  world  the  use 
of  gold  was  not  then  knowne  —  an  argument  of 
the  simplicitie  of  that  age  ;  least  therefore  suc- 
ceeding ages  should  hereafter  impute  the  same 
fault  to  us  which  wee  lay  upon  the  first  age,  265 
that  wee,  living  in  the  horned  age  of  the  world, 
should  not  understand  the  use,  the  vertue,  the 
honour,  and  the  very  royaltie  of  the  home,  I  will 
in  briefe  sound  the  prayses  thereof  that  they  who 
are  alreadie  in  possession  of  it  may  beare  their  270 
heades  aloft  as  beeing  proud  of  such  loftie  acow- 
trementes  :  and  they  that  are  but  in  possibilitie 
may  be  ravisht  with  a  desire  to  be  in  possession. 
A  trophey  so  honorable,  and  unmatchably 
powerfull  that  it  is  able  to  raise  any  man  from  275 
a  beggar  to  an  emperours  fellow,  a  dukes  fellow, 
a  noble-mans  fellow,  aldermans  fellow  ;  so  glori- 
ous, that  it  deserves  to  be  worne  (by  most  opin- 
ions) in  the  most  conspicuous  place  about  a  man. 
For  what  worthier  crest  can  you  beare  then  the  280 
home  ?  which  if  it  might  be  scene  with  our 
mortall  eyes,  what  a  wonderfuU  spectacle  would 
there  be,  and  how  highly  they  would  ravish  the 


112  HI  if  ooles;  [act  v. 

beholders  !      But  their  substance  is  incorporall, 
not   falling  under  sence,  nor  mixt  of  the  grossezSs 
concretion  of  elementes,  but  a  quintessence  be- 
yond   them,  a   spirituall    essence   invisible    and 
everlasting. 

And  this  hath  been  the  cause  why  many  men 
have  called  their  beeing  in  question,  whether  290 
there  be  such  a  thing  in  rerum  natura^  or  not; 
because  they  are  not  to  be  scene:  as  though 
nothing  were  that  were  not  to  be  scene.  Who 
ever  saw  the  winde  ?  Yet  what  wonderfull 
efFectes  are  scene  of  it.  It  drives  the  cloudes,29s 
yet  no  man  sees  it :  it  rockes  the  house,  beares 
downe  trees,  castles,  steeples,  yet  who  sees  it? 
In  like  sort  does  your  home :  it  swelles  the 
forehead,  yet  none  sees  it ;  it  rockes  the  cradle, 
yet  none  sees  it,  so  that  you  plainely  perceive  300 
sence  is  no  judge  of  essence.  The  moone  to 
any  mans  sence  seemes  to  be  horned;  yet  who 
knowes  not  the  moone  to  be  ever  perfectly 
round.  So  likewise  your  heades  seeme  ever  to 
be  round  when  in  deed  they  are  oftentimes  305 
horned.  For  their  originall,  it  is  unsearchable. 
Naturall  they  are  not :  for  there  is  [no]  beast 
borne  with  homes  more  then  with  teeth. 
Created   they  were  not,    for   Ex  nihilo  nihil  fit. 

307  ii  no  beast.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,   there  is   Beast.    S,   Where 
is  beast } 


Scene  II.]  ^l  jfOOle^  1 13 

Then  you  will  aske  mee,  how  came  they  into  the  31° 
world  ?  I  know  not ;  but  I  am  sure  women 
brought  them  into  this  part  of  the  world,  how- 
soever some  doctors  are  of  opinion  that  they 
came  in  with  the  Divell:  and  not  unlike;  for,  as 
the  Divell  brought  sinne  into  the  worlde, but  theses 
woman  brought  it  to  the  man,  so  it  may  very 
well  be  that  the  Divell  brought  homes  into  the 
world ;  but  the  woman  brought  them  to  the 
man. 

For  their  power  it  is  general!  over  the  world  :  3^° 
no  nation  so  barbarous,  no  countrey  so  proude, 
but  doth  equall  homage  to  the  home.    Europa 
when   shee  was  carried  through  the  sea  by  the 
Saturnian  bull,  was  said  (for  feare  of  falling)  to 
have  held  by  the  home  :   and  what  is  this  but  a  3^5 
plaine    shewing   to   us  that  all    Europe,  which 
took  name   from  that   Europa,  should  likewise 
hold  by  the  home.    So  that  I  say  it  is  univer- 
sal! over  the  face    of  the  world,  general  over 
the  face  of  Europe,  and  common  over  the  face  33° 
of  this  countrey.    What  cittie,  what  towne,  what 
village,  what  streete,  nay  what  house,  can  quit 
it  selfe  of  this   prerogative  ?    I  have  read  that 
the  lion  once  made  a  proclamation  through  all 
the  forrest,  that   all  horned  beastes  should  de-33S 
part   foorthwith    upon   paine  of  death.    If  this 

336   Europe.    Emend.  Do.    Qq,  Europa. 


114  ^li?oole0  [actv. 

proclamation  should  be  made  through  our  For- 
rest, Lord,  what  pressing,  what  running,  what 
flying,  would  there  be  even  from  all  the  parts 
of  it!  he  that  had  but  a  bunch  of  flesh  in  his 34° 
head  would  away  :  and  some,  foolishly  fearefull, 
would  imagine  the  shadow  of  his  eares  to  be 
homes :  ahlas,  how  desart  would  this  forrest  be 
left! 

To  conclude  :  for  there  force  it  is  irrenitable,345 
for  were  they  not  irrenitable,  then  might  eyther 
propernesse  of  person  secure  a  man,  or  wisedome 
prevent  am,  or  greatnesse  exempt,  or  riches  re- 
deeme  them  ;  but  present  experience  hath  taught 
us  that  in  this  case  all  these  stand  in  no  steade  :3so 
for  we  see  the  properst  men  take  part  of  them, 
the   best    wits    cannot    avoide    them    (for   then 
should   poets  be  no  cuckolds),  nor  can   money 
redeeme  them,  for  then  would  rich  men  fine  for 
their  homes  as  they  do   for  offices:   but  this  is 355 
held   for  a    maxime,  that   there  are   more  rich 
cuckolds  then   poore.      Lastly,  for  continuance 
of  the  home,  it   is    undeterminable  till   death  : 
neither  doe  they  determine  with  the  wives  death 
(howsoever  ignorant  writers  holde  opinion  they  360 
doe)  ;   for  as  when   a  knight  dies,  his  ladie  still 
retaines  the  title  of  ladie  ;   when  a  company  is 

345  and  346  irrenitable.    Emend,  ed.,  suggested  hy  New  Eng- 
lish Dictionary.    Qq,  irrevitable. 


Scene  II.]  ^l  jf  OOleSf  I  I  5 

cast,  yet  the  captaine  still  retaines  the  title  of 
captaine;   so  though  the  wife  die  by  whom  this 
title  came  to  her  husband,  yet  by  the  curtesieS^s 
of  the  city,  he  shal  be  a  cuckold  during  life,  let 
all  ignorant  asses  prate  what  they  list. 

Gost.   Notable  wag  !   come,  sir,  shake  hands 

with  him. 
In   whose   high    honour   you    have    made    this 

speech. 
Marc.  And    you,    sir,    come,    joyne    hands, 

y'  are  one  amongst  the.  37° 

Gost.   Very  well  done  ;  now  take  your  severall 

wives. 
And    spred   like  wilde-geese,  though   you   now 

grow  tame : 
Live  merily  together  and  agree. 
Homes  cannot  he  kept  off  with  jealousie. 

366  ibal  be.    Qq,  shalbe. 


FINIS. 


EPILOGUE 

Since  all  our  labours  are  as  you  can  like^ 
IVe  all  submit  to  you  ;   nor  dare  presume 
To  thinke  ther's  any  reall  worth  in  them  : 
Sometimes  feastes   please   the    cookes^  and   not    the 

guestes ; 
Sometimes  the  guestes^  and  curious  cookes  contemne 

them. 
Our  dishes  we  intirely  dedicate 
To  our  kinde  guestes^  but  since  yee  differ  so^ 
Some  to  like  onely  mirth  without  taxations^ 
Some  to  count  such  workes  trifles^  and  such  like  ; 
IVe  can  but  bring  you  ?neate^  and  set  you  stooles^ 
And  to  our  best  cheere  say  you  all  are  (   )  welcome. 

II    (      )  ivtlcome.    A  B.  M.   (2  copies),  Bod.  (Malone),  and 
B.  P.  L.  have  (     ).    Drummond  and  Dyce  lack  it. 


l5otej3  to  ai  ifoolejs 

For  the  meaning  of  single  ivords  see  the  Glossary. 

2.  Actors.  The  name  of  Kyte,  the  scrivener,  does  not  appear 
in  the  text  of  the  play,  where  he  is  consistently  mentioned  as 
a  notary.  The  name  of  the  page  occurs  once  only,  iii,  236.  See 
Notes  ad  loc. 

3.  PrologUS.  This  prologue  was  apparently  written  for  the 
first  production  of  ^/  Fooles  at  the  Blackfriars  Theatre.  It  had  previ- 
ously been  performed  at  the  Rose  by  the  Admiral's  Men,  for  whom 
Henslowe  had  purchased  it  on  July  2,  1 599.  Whatever  its  success 
may  have  been,  and  it  is  worth  noting  that  Chapman's  first  and  far 
inferior  comedy  had  proved  a  very  successful  investment  for  Hen- 
slowe,' it  is  plain  that  the  author  stood  somewhat  in  awe  of  the 
more  elegant  and  critical  audience  that  gathered  at  the  Blackfriars. 
This  audience  delighted  especially  in  personal  satire  j  it  was  before 
them  that  Jonson's  Cynthia' s  Re-vels  and  Poetaster  were  produced. 
Chapman's  own  play.  Sir  Gyles  Goosecappe,'^  previously  performed  at 
this  theatre,  had  contained  a  strong  dash  of  this  "personal  applica- 
tion," and  he  seems  to  have  feared,  no  doubt  with  good  reason,  that 
such  a  reversion  to  "  merely  comicall  and  harmlesse  jests  "  as  Al 
Fooles  would  fail  to  find  favour  with  the  audience.  The  prologue  is 
in  effect,  then,  a  plea  for  suspension  of  judgement. 

3,  14.  Eupolis  and  Cratinus  :  Greek  dramatists,  of  the 
age  of  Pericles,  famous  for  the  bitter  personal  satire  of  their  comedies. 

4,  24.  panegyrick  splene  :  the  spleen  in  Chapman's  day 
was  supposed  to  be  the  seat  of  various  emotions,  not  of  ill-humour 
only.  Cf  The  Maid's  Tragedy,  in,  ii,  270.  The  phrase  here  means 
"  humour  of  applause." 

4,27-  mistery,  "Mystery"  has  here  its  modern  meaning, 
"strange  secret,"  as  often  in  Shakespeare. 

1  Henslowe's  Diary,  inf.  Feb.  12,  i6,  ig,  22,  26,  Apr.  i;,  26,  May  3,  13, 
18,  June  },  25,  July  j,  Nov.  6, 12,  Dec.  2,  10,  23,  1596.  Jan.  15,  25,  March 
14,  Apr.  I,  1597. 

2  See  as  to  date  note  on  p.  ix  of  Biografhy. 


ii8  jliotesf 

4,  28.  united  heades  :  the  audience,  particularly  that  part  of 
it  which  sat  upon  the  stage. 

4,  29.  the  stage  :  the  position  on  the  stage  assumed  in  private 
theatres  by  the  gallants  of  the  time.  For  their  behaviour  see  Dek- 
ker,  Gulls  Hornbook,  chap.  vi. 

4,  30.   other  audience  :  those  in  the  pit  and  boxes. 

4,  34.  merit  .  .  .  contents.  The  merit  (of  a  play)  has  little 
or  nothing  to  do  with  the  pleasure  it  gives  most  of  the  audience  ; 
"  contents  "  is  here  a  plural  of  theabstract  noun,  meaning  "  satisfac- 
tion," "  pleasure." 

4,  35.  Auriculas  .  .  .  habet  ?  Persius,  Sat.  i,  1.  121. 

5,  I.    one  selfe  cause  :  one  and  the  same  cause. 

6,  38.    He  ;   instead  of  "  him  "  for  the  sake  of  emphasis. 

6,  40.  He  .  .  ,  home  :  Fortunio,  unable  to  obtain  his  love, 
wears  the  willow  :  Valerio,  as  a  married  man,  is  predestined,  accord- 
ing to  Rinaldo's  cynical  wit,  to  wear  the  horn,  i.  e.  to  be  a  cuckold. 

7,  44.  And  vyhat  .  .  .  quintessence  :  Chapman  possibly 
had  Marlowe's  famous  apostrophe  to  beauty  (  l  Tamburlaine,  v,  I, 
160—173)  '"  ^'^  mind  while  writing  this  line. 

7,  47.  a  cousoning  picture  :  "  It  is  a  pretty  art  that  in  a 
pleated  paper  and  table  furrowed  and  indented  men  make  one  picture 
to  represent  several  faces  —  that  being  viewed  from  one  place  or  stand- 
ing, did  shew  the  head  of  a  Spaniard,  and  from  another  the  head  of 
an  ass."  {^Humane  Industry,  1661,  p.  76  ;  quoted  by  Mr.  Toilet  in 
a  note  on  Tiuelfth  Night,  v,  i,  224,  in  Johnson  and  Steeven's  Shake- 
speare, 1778.)  This  reference  I  owe  to  Collier  {Select  Collection 
of  Old  Plays,  v.  4,  p.  112). 

7,  51.  and  would  .  .  .  all.  Would  that  women  were  no 
worse  than  brittle. 

7,  55.    made  me  happy  :  esteemed  me  fortunate. 

7-8,  65-78.  I  vowe  .  .  .  us'd.  Several  reminiscences  of 
Juvenal  occur  in  this  diatribe.  Vide  Sat.  vi,  il.  167-8,  462—3, 
474-85.  Cf.  also  Monsieur  D'  Oli-ve,  i,  ii  (Chapman's  Dramatic 
If^orks,  Pearson,  London,   1873,  vol.  i,  p.   199). 

8-9,  80-90.  I  read  .  .  .  serpent.  This  passage  seems  a 
reminiscence  of  Herodotus,  Book  11,  65-74.  The  "painted 
fowle  "  is  probably  the  phoenix,  which  Herodotus  did  not  see  "  ex- 
cept in  painting"  (§  73). 


il^oteflf  119 

9,  97-110.  I  tell  thee  Love  .  .  ,  divine  discourse: 

Collier  [History  of  English  Dramatic  Poetry,  vol.  3,  p.  257,  n. )  as- 
serts that  "  the  whole  thought  and  some  of  the  expressions  are  here 
borrowed  from  a  madrigal  by  Andrea  Navagero,  which  is  inserted  in 
Domenichi's  collection  oi Rime  Di'verse,  Venice,  1546,  beginning — 
Leggiadre  donne,  che  quella  bellezza 
Che  natura  vi  diede,  &c. 

This  poem  occurs  on  p.  98,  vol.  i,  of  Rime  Di'verse.  It  seems  to 
me  to  have  only  a  general  resemblance  to  the  passage  in  A/  Fooles. 

ID,   117.    parle  :  a  dissyllable. 

II,  148.  Machevilian  :  the  name  of  the  great  Florentine 
was  at  this  time  a  by-word  in  England  for  an  unscrupulous  intriguer. 
Chapman  uses  "  Machevilian  "  both  as  noun  and  adjective. 

11,153.  canst  skill  of :  understandest.  "  Skill' '  is  the  now 
obsolete  verb. 

11,  156.  tabacco  shops  :  "  It  should  be  observed  that  the 
houses  of  druggists  (tobacconists)  were  not  merely  furnished  with 
tobacco,  but  with  conveniences  for  smoking  it.  Every  well  fre- 
quented shop  was  an  academy  of  this  '  noble  art,'  where  professors 
regularly  attended  to  initiate  the  country  aspirant."  Gifford's  note 
to  Jonson's  Alchemist,  i,  i  (p.  38).  A  knowledge  of  the  proper 
method  of  "drinking  tobacco"  was  an  indispensable  accomplish- 
ment of  the  gallants  of  the  day.  Barnaby  Riche  (Honestie  of  this 
Age,  1 614)  joins  tobacco-houses  with  ale-houses  and  brothels  much 
as  Chapman  does  here. 

12,  164.  gentlewoman  :  trisyllabic,  as  often  in  Elizabethan 
poetry. 

12,  175.  Sure  twas  my  SOnne:  this  accidental  discovery 
of  Gostanzo's  is  the  moving  cause  of  the  whole  plot,  since  Rinaldo's 
assertion  that  Gratiana  was  Fortunio's  wife  and  the  whole  subsequent 
entanglement  springs  from  it.  It  compares  favourably  as  a  piece  of 
stage-device  with  the  wholly  unexpected  impudence  with  which  in 
the  Heautontimorumenos  Syrus  introduces  Bacchis  to  his  master's 
house  under  the  pretence  that  she  is  Clinia's  mistress.  Chapman 
may  have  taken  a  hint  from  the  Adelphi,  where  Demea  surprises 
his  son  in  the  music  girl's  company. 

13,  193.  Indeede  he  's  one,  etc.  :  Gostanzo's  pride  in  his 
son's  eloquence  resembles  that  of  Demea.    {Adelphi,  iii,  iii,  58.) 


1 20  jl5otr0 

13,  195-196.  What    thrifty  .  .  .  knowledge  :     cf. 

Syrus's  report  of  the  scolding  Ctesipho  administered  to  Aeschinus. 
{^Adelphi,  III,  iii,  50-56.) 

14,  199-200.  respect  .  .  .  riches  :  regard  riches  as  the 
true,  or  first,  wife. 

14,  213-215.  What  a  difference  .  .  .  you  thus!  This 
speech  is  almost  directly  borrowed  from  the  Adelphi,  iii,  iii,  37— 
42.  In  Gostanzo's  reply  Chapman  uses  a  speech  of  Demea's  earlier 
in  the  Adelphi  (i,  ii,   14-16). 

15,  233.  wise  .  .  .  Sonne  :  Collier  retains  the  reading 
"wife"  of  the  quartos.  It  is,  however,  an  evident  misprint. 
Gostanzo's  wife  is  nowhere  mentioned,  and  Rinaldo  has  just  been 
praising  Valerie's  wisdom. 

17,  260-261.  buildes  .  .  .  choyce  :  is  not  grounded  upon 
the  goodness  of  his  choice. 

17,  263.  poore  :  in  the  Adelphi,  iv,  vi,  lo-ii,  Demea  in 
like  manner  urges  the  poverty  of  Pamphila  as  an  objection  to  her 
marriage  with  Aeschinus. 

17,  265-266.  have  in  her  .  .  .  disparagement :  has 
made  choice  of  a  wife  whose  birth  and  virtues  make  her  his  equal. 
"  Disparagement"  has  here  its  original  meaning  ;   see  Glossary. 

17,  270.  What  should  I  doe  ?  Marc.  Antonio's  easy  and 
loving  temper  in  this  scene  corresponds  to  that  of  Menedemus  in 
the  Heautondmorumenos,  iii,  i,  when  Chremes  tells  him  of  his  son's 
infatuation  for  Bacchis. 

18,  275.  You  ope  him  doores  :  cf  Heautontimorumenos, 
in,  i,  72.    "  Quantam  fenestram  ad  nequitiam  patefeceris." 

18,  278-80.  knights  competency  .  .  .  begger:  this 

prediction  is  borrowed  from  the  Heautontimorumenos,  in,  i,  where 
Chremes  foretells  the  ruin  of  Menedemus  by  the  extravagance  of 
Bacchis.  Chapman  occasionally  preserves  the  very  phrases  of  the 
original,  thus  1.  284  corresponds  to  Heautontimorumenos,  in,  i,  54  : 
*'  Sic  me  di  amabunt,  ut  me  tuarum  miseritumst. " 
19,301.   want  of  misery  :   miserable  poverty. 

19,  306.  runne  into  the  warres:  an  adaptation  from  the 
Heautontimorumenos,  I,  i,  47-65,  where  the  harsh  rebukes  of 
Menedemus  to  his  son  for  his  intrigue  with  Antiphila  led  to  the 
young  gentleman's  flight  from  home  and  his  enlisting  in  the  Persian 
army. 


jjiotes; 


121 


19,  316.  Padoa  :  apparently  at  this  time  the  most  famous  in 
England  of  all  Italian  universities.  The  references  to  it  in  Eliza- 
bethan drama  are  innumerable.  In  May-Day  Chapman  introduces 
a  foolish  student  of  Padua  come  to  Venice  to  learn  the  fashions  of 
a  town-gallant. 

23,  390.  eld  :  Collier  changes  the  Quarto  reading  "eld"  to 
"old"  in  order  to  make  the  passage  correspond  literally  with  Go- 
stanzo's  speech,  1.  315.  There  seems  to  me  no  need  to  insist  upon 
such  scrupulous  exactness  in  Rinaldo's  speech. 

25,  32.  -with  his  best:  by  all  possible  means. 

26,  46,  47.    ayre  .  .   ■  cold:   cf.  Mother  Bombie,  ill,  iii,  16. 

27,  68,  Gra.  It  seems  plain  from  the  following  speech  of 
Valerio  that  he  is  answering  a  remark  of  his  wife.  Hence  this 
speech  should  belong  to  Gratiana.  The  phrase,  "  we  shall  breake," 
moreover,  meaning  "we  shall  be  separated  by  your  father's  anger," 
is  much  more  appropriate  to  her  than  to  Fortunio.  Several 
speeches  are  misassigned  in  the  Quarto.    Cf.  iii,  i,  469,  iv,  393, 

V,  ii,  97- 

27,  69.  jealous  espiall.  All  copies  of  the  Quarto  read 
lelosie  Spy-all,  which  Collier  interprets  as  an  appositive  phrase, 
"jealousy,  spy-all."  This,  however,  seems  very  awkward.  Shep- 
herd's emendation  "jealous  spy-all"  suggested  to  me  what  I  be- 
lieve to  be  the  true  reading  "jealous  espiall,"  from  which  the 
corruption  in  the  text  might  easily  proceed.  Dr.  Bradley  suggests 
"  jealouse  spiall." 

27,  75.  rascole  .  .  .  mace  :  a  bailiff,  or  sergeant,  with 
his  official  staff. 

27,  78.  cals  :  "  Nature  "  understood  from  the  preceding  line 
is  the  subject,  —  a  not  uncommon  construction  in  Chapman. 

28,  87-88.  what  cause  .  .  .  loves  :  what  good  cause 
my  profound  sagacity  gives  for  you  all  to  love  me. 

28-29,  94-95.  what  rage  ...  for  her:  what  anger 
against  her  would  seize  her  father's  mind. 

30,  118.  lye  at  racke  and  manger:  live  at  ease.    See 

English  Dialect  Dictionary,  sub  "  rack." 

30-31,  138-139.  not  touch  her  .  .  .  my  father!  almost 

a  translation  oi  Heautontimorumenos,  u,  iii,  1 3  5-6. 

31,  144.    conferme:  The  reading  of  the  guarto"  conseave," 


122  ^OttS 

though  accepted  by  Collier  and  Shepherd,  who  read  "conceive," 
does  not  make  good  sense.  Following  a  suggestion  by  Dr.  Brad- 
ley I  read  "conferme,"  from  which  in  MS.  "  conseave  "  might 
easily  be  derived.  Dr.  Bradley  calls  my  attention  to  a  passage  in 
Shirley,  TAe  Doubtful  Heir,  v,  ii  (Dyce's  edition,  vol.  4,  p.  344), 
And  I  have  satisfied  these  lords  so  well 
They  are  confirm'd  in  your  just  claim  and  person, 

where  the  meaning  is  exactly  the  same. 

33,  20.  olde  acquaintance  :  this  is  another  instance  of  the 
influence  of  the  Adelphi.  In  the  Heautontimorumenos  the  acquaint- 
ance between  the  fathers  is  quite  recent. 

33,  28.  all  your  amities  :  friendship  with  all  of  you,  or 
you  all  as  friends. 

34>  S3-  saw  ...  a  grate:  saw  through  a  grating  in  a 
door,  /.  e.  saw  at  distance  only,  was  not  intimate  with. 

35,  67.  to  shift  .  .  .  contentment :  to  satisfy  and  get 
rid  of  him.  Unless  some  word  like  "hence"  has  been  dropped 
from  the  line,  "contentment"  must  be  accented  on  the  first  syl- 
lable. Jonson  (  The  Englhh  Grammar,  chap,  vii)  asserted  that  all 
trisyllabic  nouns  are  accented  on  the  first  syllable. 

36.  Enter  Fortunion,  etc.  :  this  admirable  scene,  in 
which  Gostanzo  receives  his  son's  secret  wife  thinking  her  the 
wife  of  his  old  friend's  son,  is  Chapman's  own  invention  and  has 
no  counterpart  in  either  the  Heautontimorumenos  or  the  Adelphi. 
The  feigned  clownishness  of  Valerio  and  his  reluctance  to  kiss  his 
own  wife  is  very  admirable  fooling. 

39,  153-  of  his  house:  Collier  changes  without  comment 
to  "to  his  house,"  which  probably  is  the  sense.  It  is,  however, 
an  uncommon  usage,  and  we  might  perhaps  understand  "of  his 
house  "  as  modifying  "  Dutchesse." 

40,  163.  drinking  tobacco  :  at  this  time  the  ordinary 
phrase  for  smoking.  In  E-very  Man  out  of  his  Humour  (iii,  iii), 
we  have  a  picture  of  a  gallant  courting  his  mistress  between  whiffs 
of  a  pipe.  Rosalind  (^As  You  Like  It,  iv,  ii,  73-75)  recommends 
a  better  way  to  the  "  gravelled  "  lover. 

40,  172-76.  accrostique  . . .  Blancke  Verse:  to  display 

his  versatility  as  a  poet  Gostanzo  reels  off  the  names  of  some  popular 
forms  of  verse.     "  Exordion,"  /.  e    Exordium,  is  properly  speaking 


^OttS  123 

not  a  form  of  verse,  but  merely  an  introduction  whether  in  prose  or 
metre.  By  "Sonnets  in  Doozens "  he  probably  means  songs  or 
poems  of  twelve  lines  in  length,  such  as  Sidney's  Sonnet  liv  (Gro- 
sart,  Complete  Poems  of  Philip  Sidney)  or  Shakespeare's  Sonnet 
cxxvi.  "  Quatorzains  "  was  a  frequent  technical  designation  of  the 
true  sonnet  (see  Lee,  Eli-zahethan  Sonnets,  p.  xxxiii).  "SdrucioUa" 
are  the  triple,  or  dactylic,  rhymes  called  sdrucciolo,  or  slippery,  in 
Italian.  Sir  John  Harrington's  translation  of  Or/a«</o  Fwr/oio,  1591, 
in  which  such  rhymes  were  lavishly  employed,  seems  to  have  pro- 
voked considerable  discussion.  See  his  defence  of  his  action  in  An 
Apologje  of  Poetry,  prefixed  to  the  translation  [reprinted  in  Hasle- 
wood.  Ancient  Critical  Essays^. 

41,  184-186.  You  let  him  .  .  .  y'faith:  a  reminiscence 
and  elaboration  of  Micio's  comment  on  Demea's  conduct  toward  his 
son  [Ailelp/ii,  i,  i,  39-40). 

41-42,  198-201.  made  .  .  .  workt  :  correct  syntax  de- 
mands that  these  verbs  should  be  participles  in  composition  with 
"  have"  (1.  193),  but  the  numerous  infinitives  with  which  they  are 
surrounded  seem  in  the  Quarto  to  have  attracted  them  from  their 
proper  form.  Chapman  himself  may  have  been  responsible  for  the 
loose  construction. 

42,  206.  Of  thine:  dependent  upon  "the  wit,"  under- 
stood. 

42,  208.  th'  evening  crownes  the  daie :  an  old  pro- 
verbial saying  Qvide  Hazlitt,  English  Pro-verbs,  p.   380). 
42,  210.    in  a  string:   to  be  led  about  at  will. 

42.  Enter  Gazetta  sowing :  this  stage-direction  seems 
to  show  that  the  front  scene  in  this  act  was  conceived  of  as  a 
street.  At  the  rear  two  doors  led  into  the  houses  of  Gostanzo  and 
Cornelio.  After  the  exit  of  Gostanzo  into  his  house  and  the  sub- 
sequent entrance  of  Rinaldo  and  Valerio  therefrom,  Gazetta  enters 
from  her  husband's  house  to  take  the  air  and  sew  before  his  door. 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  all  scenes  in  the  play  are  laid  in  the 
same  place,  a  street  before  the  houses  of  Gostanzo  and  Cornelio, 
except  the  last,  which  is  laid  in  a  tavern. 

43,  226.  S'wagger  :  apparently  a  new  bit  of  slang  about  the 
close  of  the  sixteenth  century.  In  his  address  "To  the  Un- 
derstander  "    prefixed  to  Achilles   Shield  (i  ^<)S),  Chapman   says: 


1 24  iliotf  0 

"Swaggering  is  a  new  word  among  them  [the  captious  young 
readers  of  the  day]  and  round  headed  custom  gives  it  privilege  with 
much  imitation,  being  created  as  it  were  by  a  natural  Prosopopeia 
without  etymology  or  derivation." 

43»  ^3°-    this  light  :   the  sword  which  he  here  draws. 

43,  233-234.    pancie   .  .    .   columbine:    Mr.    Fleay 

(^Chronicle  of  English  Drama,  vol.  i,  p.  58)  sees  here  a  palpable 
imitation  of  the  famous  scene  in  Hamlet  (iv,  v)  where  Ophelia 
distributes  flowers.  The  resemblance  consists  in  the  mention  of 
pansy  and  columbine  and  in  the  meaning  assigned  or  imputed  to 
these  flowers  in  both  plays.  Inasmuch  as  the  columbine  is  not  men- 
tioned in  the  first  Quarto  of  Hamlet,  but  appears  in  Q2  (1604), 
Fleay  holds  that  the  present  passage  of  Al  Fooles  indicates  a  re- 
vision of  this  play  some  time  after  1603.  I  do  not  feel  that  this 
is  a  strong  argument.  The  language  of  flowers  was  probably  as 
familiar  to  Chapman  as  to  Shakespeare,  and  Chapman  has  his  own 
reasons  for  making  the  jealous  Cornelio  refer  to  the  pansy,  and  to 
the  columbine,  the  cuckold's  flower. 

44,  240.  adores  .  .  .  adhornes:  the  second  of  these 
words  used  in  the  sense  of  "plants  horns  on"  appears  to  be  a 
coinage  of  Chapman's.  This  play  on  "  adores  "  and  "  adhornes  " 
appears  again  in   The  JVidoiv\  Tears,  i,  i  (vol.  3,  p.  9). 

44,  252.  Thinke  .  .  ,  netts  :  the  phrases  "to  dance,  to 
hide,  or  to  march,  in  a  net  "  were  in  proverbial  use  in  Elizabethan 
English  to  denote  an  inefl^ectual  attempt  at  concealment.  Cf.  King 
Henry  V,  i,  ii,  93,  and  The  Spanish  Tragedy,  iv,  iv,  118,  with 
Professor  Boas's  note  on  the  latter  passage.  The  phrase  is  awkwardly 
applied  here,  and  it  might  be  better  to  read  as  Mr.  P.  A.  Daniel 
suggests  :   "  Think  that  you  dance  in  nets." 

46,  281.  Play  Menelaus:  the  allusion  is  to  the  hospitable 
reception  given  by  Menelaus  to  Paris,  -vide  Ovid,  Heroides  :  Epis- 
tola  XVI,   127  : 

Excipit  hospitio,  vir  me  tuus,  etc 

46,  282.  well-taught,  wayting- woman :  cf  Monsieur 
D'Oli-ve,  V,  i  (vol.  I,  p.  245)  :  "  Vou  may  be  waiting-woman 
to  any  dame  in  Europe  :  that  Petrarch  does  good  offices  ...  As 
when  any  lady  is  in  private  courtship  with  this  or  that  gallant,  your 
Petrarch  helps  to  entertaine  time." 


jl5ote0  125 

46,  291.  looking  to  .  .  .  marke:  by  taking  care  of  the 
mark  at  which  they  aim  (/.  e.  Gazetta's  honour)  and  so  prevent- 
ing their  touching  it. 

47)  3°3-  lether  jerkins  :  the  buff  coats  which  were  at  this 
time  the  regular  dress  of  the  sergeants  who  arrested  debtors. 

47,  306.  Forget  his  day  :  forget  the  day  on  which  a  debt, 
or  bill,  came  due. 

47>  3°7-  corporals :  the  military  term  is  here  applied  jest- 
ingly to  the  sergeant's  underlings. 

48,  334.  besides  their  bookes:  beyond  their  briefs,  or 
without  their  notes,  and  therefore  incoherently. 

48,336-38.  that  same  vayne  .  .  .  grossest:  this 
speech  is  probably  a  "gag  "  inserted  during  the  revision  of  the  play, 
with  reference  to  the  so-called  "  War  of  the  Theatres."  "Your 
best  poet"  may  perhaps  refer  to  Jonson,  the  leading  poet  at  this 
time  for  the  Blackfriars  company. 

49,  346-347.  put  a  mad  spleene  .  .  .  pigeon :   cf. 

Hamlet,  n,  ii,  605. 

50,  370-371.  Of  all  mens  wits  .  .  .  Valerioes:  the 

trick  played  upon  Valerio  in  this  scene  is  responsible  for  the  de- 
velopement  of  the  under-plot,  for  which  the  ground  has  already 
been  laid  by  the  revelation  of  Cornelio's  jealousy.  It  might  be  ob- 
jected that  such  a  fool  as  Cornelio  was  not  likely  to  make  a  fool  of 
Valerio.  But  Chapman  seems  to  believe,  with  Lincoln,  that  "  you 
can  fool  all  of  the  people  some  of  the  time."  Each  of  the  leading 
characters  in  the  play  is  "gulled  "  in  turn  by  being  attacked  on 
the  side  of  his  "  humour,"  or  ruling  passion,  and  Valerio's  ruling 
passion  is  pride  in  his  gallant  accomplishments. 

50,  378.  th'  Italian:  Chapman  forgets  with  characteristic 
Elizabethan  carelessness  that  the  scene  of  the  play  is  laid  in  Italy. 

50,  381.  against  the  hayre  :  literally,  "against  the  grain, 
contrary  to  one's  inclination."  Here,  however,  it  must  mean 
rather  "  in  spite  of  a  seeming  impossibility." 

51 »  3^5-  judge  um  lyte  :  Collier  noted  that  the  reading 
of  the  Quarto  was  unintelligible  and  proposed  to  read  "  'em  light." 
It  is  more  probable  that  ' '  lyte  ' '  is  the  old  adjective  =  little,  and 
that  "on"  is  a  misprint  for  "um"  =  " 'em,"  as  often  in  this 
play. 


126  il^oteg 

51,  395.  Toucht  a  theorbo:  "touch"  was  the  proper 
technical  term  for  playing  upon  a  stringed  instrument. 

51,  398.  husband  :  here  in  the  sense  of  an  economical  or 
frugal  man,  with  an  implied  pun  on  the  speaker's  position  as  a 
"  husband  "  =  husbandman. 

51.  untrusses  :  loosens  the  ♦*  points  "  which  tied  his  hose  to 
his  doublet,  so  as  to  gain  more  freedom  for  his  capers. 

52,  406-407.  Foote,  will  you  .  .  .  Italy  ?  All  previous 
editions  give  this  speech  to  Dariotto,  but  it  would  be  quite  out  of 
keeping  with  the  situation  for  Dariotto  to  abuse  Valerio's  voice  at 
this  point.  On  the  other  hand  the  speech  is  an  exact  counterpart 
of  11.  383  and  394  in  its  "pride  that  apes  humility." 

52,  409-410.  natural!  .  .  .  naturall  sonne  :  in  the 
first  line  "  naturall  "  =  "a  gift  of  nature  "  (cf  Twelfth  Night, 
I,  iii,  29-30) ;  in  the  second  "  natural  "  =  "  legitimate."  Valerio 
means  that  Gostanzo  would  renounce  -a  son  with  such  gifts  as  his, 
as  being  no  true  son  of  such  a  father. 

55,  14.  the  ivory  gate ;  the  gate  through  which  in  Greek 
mythology  deluding  dreams  were  said  to  come.  Vide  Aeneid,  vi, 
893-96,  and  Odyssey,  xix,  562. 

55,  20-22.  My  deerest  .  .  .  free-hold :  this  embrace  of 
Valerio  corresponds  to  the  caress  which  Clitipho  bestows  on  Bacchis 
in  the  Heautontimorumenos,  in,  iii.  There  as  here  the  action  is 
observed  and  misinterpreted  by  the  father. 

55)  ^8.  last  day  :  this  phrase  gives  the  time  of  this  scene  and 
shows  that  a  night  has  intervened  between  Acts  11  and  ni.  The 
same  interval  occurs  at  the  same  place  in  the  Heautontimorumenos. 

55)  30-31-  weare  .  .  .  moderne fashion :  i.e.  adorned 

with  horns. 

56,  36-37.  your  sister  .  .  .  here:  the  reason  for  the 
transfer  of  the  mistress,  or,  as  here,  the  secret  wife,  from  one  house 
to  another  is  rather  more  satisfactory  in  this  play  than  in  the  Heau- 
tontimorumenos. Nothing  could  have  been  likelier  than  that  Chremes, 
after  the  rebuke  he  inflicted  on  Clitipho  for  taking  liberties  with  a 
friend's  mistress  (^Heautontimorumenos,  m,  iii),  should  have  ordered 
the  too  tempting  lady  to  be  removed  from  his  house.  But  he  fails 
to  do  so,  and  the  transfer  is  arranged  later  by  Syrus  for  quite  other 
than  moral  reasons. 


i^otes;  127 

56,  53.  the  setting  on:  /.  e.  of  a  pair  of  horns.  Probably 
spoken  with  a  gesture  to  the  head. 

58,  83-84  to  say  .  .  .  your  sonnes  wife:  this  device 
of  telling  the  truth  with  intent  to  deceive  is  the  cardinal  point  on  which 
both  the  Heautontimorumenos  and  Al  Foo/es  turn.  In  the  former, 
however,  the  intriguer,  Syrus,  does  not  tell  Chremes  of  his  device 
until  the  transfer  has  been  effected.  Professor  Koeppel  (^e/Ien  und 
Forschungen,  Heft  82,  pp.  6,  7)  thinks  that  Chapman  in  the  haste 
of  his  adaptation  has  sinned  against  the  natural  character  develope- 
ment  of  Gostanzo  in  permitting  him  to  commit  the  "incredible 
folly"  of  believing  that  Marc.  Antonio  would  receive  Gratiana  as 
Valerie's  wife.  But  Chapman's  Al  Fooks  is  no  hasty  adaptation, 
and  his  departures  from  the  original  are  usually  carefully  considered. 
It  is  Gostanzo's  contempt  for  the  "honest,  simple  knight"  that 
makes  him  believe  Marc.  Antonio  will  swallow  even  this  "gross 
gob."  In  fact  Gostanzo  is  gulled  through  his  master  passion,  self- 
conceit  and  contempt  of  his  neighbour. 

59,  91.    in  sadnesse  :   in  earnest,  truly. 

59,  94.   swallov?  .   .   .   gudgion  ?  take  the  bait. 

59,  107.  sing  the  cuckooes  note:  be  a  cuckold. 
59-60,    109-110.    what  would  .  .   .  counsell  ?    Cf. 

Heautontimorumenos,  iii,  iii,  30—31  : 

quid  ilium  porro  credis  facturum  .   .   . 
Nisi  eum  .  .  .  servas,  castigas,  mones  > 

60,  115.    Out  of  .   .   .   hands:   when  unhelped  by  Fortune. 
60,  119.    grope   .    .    .    trowt :    "  Grope  or  tic/i/e,  a  kind   of 

fishing,  by  putting  one's  hand  into  the  water-holes  where  fish  lye, 
and  tickling  them  about  the  gills  5  by  which  means  they  '11  become 
so  quiet,  that  a  man  may  take  them  in  his  hand."  (Halliwell,  Diet. 
Rust.)  "  Catching  trout  in  this  manner  is  an  old  .  .  .  method  of 
poaching,  .  .  .  can  only  be  practised  .  .  .  when  the  water  is 
exceedingly  low."  (Furness,  note  on  Tnvelfth  Night,  11,  v,  23.) 
60,  123.  Even  that  .  .  .  fooles:  even  that  small  quantity 
of  wit  which  fools  generally  possess. 

60,  130.    his:   Dariotto's. 

61,  134.   procure  her  quiet:  make  her  peace. 
61,  139-  yellow  fury:  jealousy. 

61,  148.    And  who  .  .  .  keepers:  a  translation  of  the  well- 


128  iliotefi 

known  phrase  of  Juvenal,  quis  custodiet  ipsos  custodes  ?  (Sac.  vi, 
347-8.) 

61,  152.  keepers  fee:  cf.  an  old  rhyme  quoted  in  Scott's 
Woodstock,  chap.  3 1 : 

The  haunch  to  thee. 

The  breast  to  me. 

The  hide  and  the  homes  for  the  keeper's  fee, 

and  3  King  Henry  VI,  iii,  i,  22. 

62,  182.  in  her  of  all  that  name  :  Collier  proposes  to  read 
"  in  her  all  of  that  name  "  ;  but  the  meaning  is  clear  as  it  stands. 

63,  188.  Mercuric  :  Mercury,  the  god,  among  other  things, 
of  eloquence. 

63,  200.    set  to  :  impressed. 

63,  207-208.  high  set  .  .  .  taken  downe?  If  she  is  high 

pitched,  excited,  are  you  not  correspondingly  dejected  ? 

64,  219.  bracke  :  a  broken  bit  bearing  the  same  relation  to 
a  whole  piece  of  velvet  as  the  paring  to  the  cheese.  Cf.  Chapman's 
Odyssey,  xvii,  249.  Stier  points  out  that  the  whole  passage  is  a 
parody  of  a  passage  in  Lyly's  Euphues.  (Lyiy,  Works,  ed.  by  Bond, 
vol.  I,  p.    179.) 

64,  230-231.  gardens  neere  the  towne  :  Collier  in  his 

note  on  this  line  refers  to  a  passage  in  Stubbes'  The  Anatomy  of  Abuses, 
to  the  effect  that  gardens  in  the  suburbs  were  used  as  trysting-places 
by  city  wives  and  their  lovers. 

64,  236.  Curio  :  this  is  the  only  place  where  the  page's  name 
is  mentioned.  I  am  inclined  to  suspect  that  it  is  not  his  name  in 
this  instance,  but  an  abbreviation  of  "  Mercurio,"  cf.  1.  188.  In 
this  case  whoever  prepared  the  play  for  the  press  may  have  misunder- 
stood its  significance  and,  taking  it  as  the  page's  name,  included  it 
in  the  Dramatis  Personae. 

65,  252.  the  law  ...  no  wils  :  by  the  Acts  of  32  Hen. 
VII,  c.  I  (1540),  and  34  and  35  Hen.  VIII,  c.  5,  married  women, 
along  with  infants  and  idiots,  were  incapacitated  to  devise  real  estate. 

At  common  law  a  married  woman  in  England  could  not,  with  a 
few  exceptions,  make  a  will  without  her  husband's  license  and  consent 
until  the  Married  Women  s  Property  Act,  1882. 

65,  267.  superannated  :  Collier  reads  "superannuated," 
but  "  superannate  "  occurs  in  Elizabethan  English. 


j^OCfSl  129 

66,  268.  men  of  their  hands  :  men  of  valour,  here  no 
doubt  in  the  wars  of  love. 

67,  301.  lips  perfumde  :  one  of  the  marks  of  a  courtier  in 
Chapman's  day.    Cf  As  Tou  Like  It,  iii,  ii,  65. 

67,  308-309.  Mars  .  .  .  Vulcans  snare :  the  well- 
known  story,  first  appearing  in  the  Odyssey,  Book  vm. 

67,  317-318.  And,  me  thinks  .  .  .  before.  This  speech 
certainly  seems  to  be  out  of  keeping  with  the  character  of  Marc. 
Antonio.  Possibly  Chapman's  conception  of  Marc.  Antonio  is 
here,  as  elsewhere,  coloured  by  that  of  Micio,  the  easy-going  man 
of  the  world,  in  the  Adelphi.  (Cf.  Adelphi,  i,  i,  16-18,  and  i,  ii, 
21-23.) 

68,  329.  Sine  periculo  friget  lusus :  Professor  E.  K. 
Rand  suggests  that  Chapman,  with  memories  of  certain  lines  of  Ovid 
{e.  g.  Amores,  2.  19;  ^rt  of  Lo-ve,  2.  247,  and  3.  603),  may 
have  fashioned  his  line  from  one  of  Terence  (1.  732  oi  Eunuchus)  : 
"  Verbum,  hercle,hoc  verum  erit  sine  Cerere  et  libero  friget  Venus. " 

69,  341.    these   .    .    .   whelps:   /.  e.  Valerio  and  Claudio. 

70,  372.  to  be  a  cuckold.  With  these  words  Dariotto  prob- 
ably makes  horns  at  Cornelio.    This  accounts  for  the  latter' s  outburst. 

70,  376.  rayse  the  streets:  call  on  the  passers-by  for  aid. 
(Cf.  Othello,  I,  i,  168,  183.) 

7I»  391-  your  hat  .  .  .  weare  it.  It  was  a  common 
practice  for  the  Elizabethan  lover  to  wear  a  "  favour  "  of  his  lady, 
a  glove,  for  example,  in  his  hat. 

72,  413.  Out  of  France:  one  of  the  innumerable  refer- 
ences of  Elizabethan  writers  to  lues  "venerea  as  of  French  origin. 

72,  414.  stood  on  my  armes:  prided  myself  upon  my 
coat  of  arms. 

72,  420.  shew  good  cardes  for:  bring  good  proof  of, 

show  genealogical  charts. 

73)  43°-  joynt  of  mutton:  probably  "mutton"  here,  as 
80  often  in  Elizabethan  usage,  for  a  loose  woman. 

73)  45°-  writt  of  error  :  a  writ  brought  to  procure  the 
reversal  of  a  judgement  on  the  ground  of  error. 

74,  464-465.  came  in  at  the  window:  is  an  illegitimate 
child.  Valerio  makes  the  charge  here  that  Cornelio  did  above 
(lines  281-283).    Cf  King  John,  i,  i,  171,  and  The  Ball,  11,  i. 


130  j^otes; 

74,  469-470.  So,  sir  .  .  .  ridiculouse :  all  previous 
editions  give  these  words  to  Dariotto ;  but  it  is  plain  that  they 
belong  to  Valerio.  The  bloody  coxcomb  which  the  latter' s  tale- 
bearing has  procured  Dariotto  is  his  return  for  the  courtier's  share 
in  the  trick  played  upon  Valerio  at  the  close  of  the  preceding  act. 
In  the  Quarto,  v,  ii,  97-104,  a  speech  is  similarly  taken  from 
Valerio  and  given  to  the  preceding  speaker.  Unless  the  latter  part 
of  1.  470  is  lost,  we  must  assume  that  this  speech  is  interrupted 
by  Rinaldo. 

74,  469.  rings  lowd  acquittance :  makes  (or  proclaims) 

payment  in  full. 

74,  471.  salve  your  license:  make  good  the  liberty  you 
took,  ;'.  e.  with  Gratiana. 

77,  23-26.  O  the  good  God  .  .  ,  our  owne :  Pro- 
fessor Koeppel  notes  that  we  have  here  a  characteristic  elaboration 
of  the  simple  style  of  Terence  into  the  figurative  language  of  the 
Elizabethans.     Cf.   Heautontimorumenos,  iii,  i,  93—96. 

77)  29-  vrhite  Sonne :  pure,  guiltless  son :  ironical.  The 
phrase  ' '  white  boy  ' '  was  sometimes  used  as  a  term  of  endearment 
to  a  child  (^Yorkshire  Tragedy,  Sc.  v). 

77»  31-3^-  Credulity  .  .  .  Decrepity :  credulity,  such  as 
yours,  is  a  sure  way  to  hasten  the  decrepitude,  imbecility,  of  old  age. 

77»  35-  ■^^^  this  is  .  .  .  plot:  in  the  same  manner  Chremes 
[^Heautontimorumenos,  iv,  viij)  opens,  as  he  thinks,  the  eyes  of 
Menedemus.  Chapman  has  enlarged  the  scene  and  brought  out 
forcibly  the  self-conceit  and  contempt  of  his  neighbour  which  char- 
acterises Gostanzo. 

78,50.  I  ,  .  .  suggested:  Gostanzo  in  the  height  of  his 
triumph  over  Marc.  Antonio  calmly  assumes  the  credit  for  Rinaldo's 
"  queint  devise. "    Cf.  in,  i,  78-89. 

78,  53-   this  fount  :   Gostanzo  touches  his  head  as  he  speaks. 

78,  62.  my  circumstance  .  .  .  fact :  the  circumstance 
that  I  shortly  before  had  believed  myself  slighted  by  my  son  and  yet 
had  not  been  angry,  serving  to  lessen  Valerio's  *'  fact,"  /.  e.  fault, 
offence. 

79.  Intrant  Rynaldo,  etc.  :  the  following  scene  to  the 
departure  of  the  two  fathers  is  Chapman's  own  invention,  and  shows 
him,  perhaps,  at  his  best  in   comedy.    It  has  no  analogue  in  the 


i^otes;  131 

plays  of  Terence,  but   is  devised  partly  for  the  sake  of  the  highly 
comic  situation,  partly  to  prepare  for  the  solution  in  the  last  act. 

79,  82-83.  bolt  .  .  .  life:  with  the  thunderbolt  of  my 
anger  cut  off  the  support  which  you  draw  from  my  estate.  The 
language  is  purposely  exaggerated. 

80,  86-92.  If  teares  .  .  .  dame  :  an  involved  and  some- 
what obscure  passage.  Valerio,  in  his  feigned  submission,  appeals  to 
his  father  by  the  tie  of  blood.  His  tears  come  from  his  "  inward 
eyes,"  i.e.  they  are  not  outward  show;  they  are  indeed  "so 
many  drops  of  blood,"  and  these  drops  issue  from  the  "  creator  of 
his  heart,"  /.  e.  from  Gostanzo  himself  Collier,  who  does  not 
seem  to  have  understood  the  passage,  suggested  that  ' '  creator ' ' 
was  a  corruption  of  "  crater  "  ;  but  this  reading  would  destroy  the 
meaning. 

80,  98-99.  You  thought  .  .  .  with  her :  Rinaldo's  aside 
introduces  a  motive  which  has  no  analogue  in  Terence.  It  cannot 
be  said  to  add  to  the  interest  of  the  play,  as  nothing  more  is  heard 
of  it ;  but  it  serves  to  show  the  hypocritical  character  of  Gostanzo's 
morality. 

81,  115-116.  birth-right  .  .  .  messe  of  broth :  Go- 
stanzo seems  to  be  thinking  of  Esau  and  his  mess  of  pottage. 

81,  121.    of  any  :   by  any  one. 

82,  133-134.  world  so  .  .  .  beauty:  your  age  so  far 
advanced  that  you  may  not  look  again  with  eyes  of  love  on  such 
a  beauty  (as  Gratiana's). 

82,  140.  it:  /.  e.  love,  understood  from  "affections"  in  the 
preceding  line. 

82,  147-148.  large  thongs  .  .  .  leather:  to  cut  large 

thongs  out  of  other  people's  leather  was  an  old  saying  [Heywood's 
Pro-verbs,  pt.  ii,  chap.  5],  implying  to  make  free  use  of  another 
man's  goods.    Gostanzo  here  applies  it,  in  an  admiring  aside,  to  the 
eloquent  defence  Valerio  is  making  of  Fortunio's  supposed  case, 
83>  '5°-   these    men:   such  simple  souls  as  Marc.  Antonio. 

83,  158.  I  can  hold  no  longer:  it  is  not  quite  evident 
whether  Gratiana  speaks  these  words  in  earnest  or  merely  to  play 
up  to  Valerio.  Gostanzo  evidently  believes  the  latter,  see  note 
below  on  line  161.  But  Gostanzo  misunderstands  the  whole  situa- 
tion, and  I  incline  to  believe  that  Gratiana  is  so  carried  away  by  the 


132  jjioteg 

excellence  of  Valerie's  acting  that  she  believes  he  is  renouncing  her 
in  earnest. 

83,  161.  has  her  lyripoope  :  has  her  wits  about  her.  The 
word  "  lyripoop,"  a  scarf  or  hood  worn  by  one  who  had  taken 
a  university  degree,  was  used  figuratively  to  denote  first  learning, 
then  wit  or  common  sense.    Cf  Mother  Bombie,  i,  iii,  128. 

84,  168-171.  No,  no  .  .  .  you  both.  Gostanzo's  for- 
giveness is  of  course  as  pure  a  piece  of  acting  as  Valerio's  repent- 
ance. Having  shown  Marc.  Antonio  how  a  disobedient  son  should 
be  reproved,  he  now  condescends  to  give  a  lesson  in  the  art  of 
forgiveness. 

84,  178.  armd  you  .  .  .  expectation:  had  I  not  warned 
you  in  advance. 

85,  204.  beare  a  braine  :  a  common  Elizabethan  phrase  for 
*'  hold  in  mind,  remember."    Cf.  Romeo  and  Juliet,  i,  iii,  29. 

86,  214.    the  honor'd  action:   the  marriage. 
86,  220.  In  her  true  kinde :  i.  e.  as  your  wife. 

88,  252-255.  a  white  sheete  .  .  .  capitall  letters: 

the  sheet  in  which  adulterers  did  public  penance,  and  the  letters 
Indicative  of  their  sin  which  were  bound  to  their  foreheads. 

88,  258.  in  minde  :  I  retain  the  reading  of  the  Quarto  on  the 
chance  of  its  being  correct.  A  friend  suggests  that  "  in  minde  "  = 
in  my  (Cornelio's)  mind.  Cornelio  sharply  contrasts  mere  physical 
with  mental  torture.  I  am  inclined,  however,  to  accept  Collier's  sug- 
gestion of  "  mine  "  =  my  (forehead).  The  mistake  of  a  "d" 
for  an  •'  e  "  would  be  an  easy  one  in  an  Elizabethan  MS. 

88,  270.  stable  of  your  honour:  Ingleby,  Shakespeare 
Hermeneutics,  pp.  77-78,  cites  this  passage  in  defence  of  his  asser- 
tion that  the  phrase,  "to  keep  one's  stables,"  was  familiar  in 
Shakespeare's  day  and  meant  "  to  keep  personal  watch  over  one's 
wife's,  or  one's  mistress's  chastity."    Cf  fVinter^s  Tale,  11,  i,  134. 

90,  311.  autenticall  dashes:  the  dashes  over  words  to 
represent  a  missing  "m"  or  "  n,"  without  which  the  document 
might  be  invalid. 

90,  316.  Butiro  &  Caseo  :  butter  and  cheese.  Augustine 
Vincent  (Disco-very  of  Errors,  etc.,  1622)  speaks  of  "  Scogan's 
scholar  who  read  Butyrum  et  Caseum  for  Brutum  et  Cassium."  I 
do  not  find  this  story  in  Scogan's  Jests,  but  it  was  probably  a  well- 


j]5oteflf  133 

known  joke  in  Chapman's  day.  I  do  not  understand  the  allusion 
to  "  Butler  and  Cason's  case  "  which  follows. 

90,  322.  in  Florence  :  this  casual  phrase  gives  the  scene  of 
the  play. 

91,  345.  easements  chamber:  not  "easements,  cham- 
ber," as  Collier  reads,  but  in  the  sense  of  a  "  chamber  of  ease," 
or  water-closet. 

91,  351.  pole-deedes  :  more  commonly  "deed-polls," 
deeds  made  by  one  party  only,  and  so  differing  from  "indentures," 
deeds  between  two  or  more  parties. 

92,  360.   1500  and  so  forth:  i.  e.    15 .     Mr.   Fleay 

[^Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama,  vol.  I,  p.  58)  believes  this  to  be 
one  of  the  signs  that  the  play  was  first  performed  in  the  sixteenth 
century. 

92,  362.  What  els  :  not  "  What  else  shall  I  do  besides 
setting  to,"  but  "of  course,"  "  or  I  will  do  nothing  else." 

92,  371.    at  large:  in  large  characters,  requiring  plenty  of  ink. 

92,  373-374.  Ah,  asse  .  .  .  lost  it  :  addressed  to  the 
unfortunate  Gazetta  who  is  about  to  lose  the  happiness  of  having 
such  a  husband. 

92,  375.  my  nose  bleed:  an  omen,  usually  of  ill  luck. 
Cf.   The  Duchess  of  Malfi,  11,  iii,  42-44. 

93,  387.  howlet  .  ,  .  CUCkooe :  an  owl  discovered  by 
other  birds  in  daytime  is  frequently  attacked  by  them.  (Cf  The  Case 
is  Altered,  v,  iii.)  The  cuckoo  certainly  deserves  such  treatment, 
although  I  have  not  heard  of  its  infliction. 

93,  399-400.   vsrith  his  glory  :  in  his  vain-glory. 

94,  410.  like  two  partes  in  me:  Professor  Baker  suggests: 
"  if  like  two  independent  persons,  I  do  not  gull  each  guller,"  or 
"  as  if  I  were  two  different  persons,  the  man  who  may  be  gulled 
and  the  man  who  can  gull  others  easily."  I  suspect  a  corruption  of 
the  text  here. 

95,7-10.  smocke-faces  .  .  .  substance:  to  some 
people  Fortune  gives  smock-faces,  i.  e.  beauty,  or  some  (similar) 
gifts  which  enable  them  to  ' '  live  in  sensual  acceptations, ' '  /.  e.  to 
gain  a  favourable  reception  on  the  part  of  the  senses  (or  at  the 
hands  of  those  who  judge  only  by  the  senses)  and  to  make  a  show 
when  they  have  no  trace  of  real  worth. 


134  0Ott& 

95,  14.  in  themselves  no  piece  :  no  flaw  or  broken  bit 

in  their  wits.  Query  :  misprint  for  "  one  piece  "  =  undivided,  un- 
broken ? 

96,  38.   beare  him  out :  back  him  up,  help  him  out. 

96,  38-39.  made  Meanes  .  .  .  sequester  him :  used 

means  to  induce  the  officers  to  keep  him  in  private  instead  of  taking 
him  to  a  debtor's  prison.  "Made  meanes"  probably  =  "sent 
people  as  go-betweens."     Cf    TAe  Gentleman  UsAer,  i,  ii,   159. 

97,  42.    take   •   .   .   order  :  take  proper  action  at  once. 

97,  46.  as  you  can  wisely  doo't :  Rinaldo's  "  humour" 

is  a  love  of  intrigue,  of  managing  other  people's  affairs.  Like  the 
other  persons  of  this  comedy  he  is  gulled  by  an  appeal  to  his  master 
passion. 

97>  53-54-  beate  .  .  .  shelter:  the  figure  is  from  ships 
at  sea,  no  doubt  suggested  by  "  storme  "  in  the  preceding  line, 
driven  by  the  wind  into  a  dangerous  ("  horred  "  =  rough,  bristling 
with  rocks)  harbour. 

97,60.  this  slight  a  milstone:  "to  see  through  a 
millstone"  was  a  proverbial  phrase  for  having  very  keen  vision, 
mental  as  well  as  physical.  This  "slight,"  or  trick,  however,  is 
a  millstone  too  thick  for  Rinaldo. 

98,  69.  a  red  lettice  :  the  lattice  window  painted  red  was 
formerly  the  common  sign  of  an  ale-house. 

98,  75.  Jam  SUmuS  ergo  pares.  Martial,  Epigrams,  II, 
xviii,  2,  4,  6.  ^.   u    •        u 

98.  Enter  ValeriO,  etc.  :  the  stage,  which  m  the  pre- 
ceding scene  represented  a  street  in  Florence,  is  now  supposed  to 
be  a  room  in  a  tavern.  Drawers  enter  with  a  table.  Note  that 
Chapman  cleverly  covers  the  poverty  of  the  stage-setting  by  mak- 
ing Valerio  say  that  they  are  changing  from  one  room  of  the 
tavern  to  another. 

98,  2.  shift  chances  :  change  the  luck.  It  is  a  common 
superstition  among  gamblers  that  a  change  of  seats  means  a  change 
of  luck.  Valerio  seems  from  11.  86-87  to  have  been  having  bad 
luck  at  the  dice. 

98,  5.  where  .  .  .  becomes :  what  is  become  of  that 
slave.      Cf.    The  Blind  Beggar,  i,   i  (vol.  I,  p.  3). 

99,  8.  stands  in  print :  stands  in  a  formal  manner,  or 
precisely  as  it  should. 


0ott&  135 

99,  16.  Rialto :  Chapman  here  transfers  the  well-known 
quarter  of  Venice  to  Florence. 

100,  34.  unpledg'd  :  the  expressions  "pledge"  and  "  un- 
pledg'd  "  of  this  scene  recall  old  customs  of  drinking  healths  which 
are,  perhaps,  best  interpreted  by  the  ' '  Bier-Comment ' '  of  the  Ger- 
man students  to-day.  Unless  under  exceptional  circumstances,  no 
man  in  a  convivial  gathering  such  as  this  in  the  Halfe-Moone,  drank 
a  glass  without  proposing  a  toast  or  drinking  a  health  to  some 
member  of  the  company.  This  member  was  the  "  pledge  "  of  the 
person  drinking  his  health,  and  was  bound  to  "pledge"  him, 
/.  e.  to  drink  his  health  in  return  (cf  German,  Bescheid-thun). 
This  answering  draught  was  also  called  the  "pledge."  In  this 
scene  Dariotto  coming  late  to  the  carousal  is  ordered  to  drink  a 
bumper  "  unpledg'd,"  so  as  to  overtake  the  others.  Dariotto  pro- 
poses to  drink  this  cup  to  the  ladies  (1.  66),  whereupon  Valerio 
offers  to  be  their  "pledge  "  (1.  67),  /.  e.  to  drink  Dariotto's 
health  in  return  and  proposes  at  the  same  time  Cornelio's  health 
(1.  72),  which  is  answered,  "  pledged,"  by  Dariotto.  Later  Valerio 
proposes,  as  a  toast,  the  comfort  his  father  would  take  in  him 
if  he  saw  him  (11.  88-90);  Fortunio  answers,  "He  pledge  it," 
/.  e.  "  I  '11  drink  to  that  toast." 

100,  43.  pudding  cane  tabacco:  tobacco  rolled  into  a 
tight  stick  or  cane  which  had  to  be  shredded  by  the  knife  before 
being  crammed  into  the  pipe.  A  wood-cut  reproduced  from  a  Dutch 
book  on  tobacco  (1623)  in  Tobacco  —  in  History,  etc.  (Fairholt, 
1859)  shows  a  smoker  with  roll  and  knife  on  the  table  before  him. 
"  Leaf  tobacco  "  needs  no  definition. 

100,  44.  linstock  :  the  page  has  answered  Valerio's  call  for 
tobacco  (1.  37)  and  appears  with  a  roll  of  the  weed  in  one  hand 
and  in  the  other  a  pipe-light  made  out  of  a  leaf  of  a  book  —  prob- 
ably, from  the  adjectives  applied  to  it  in  1.  46,  a  page  of  Marston's 
Satires.  He  wilfully  supposes  Valerio's  demand  ("  let  mee  see  that 
leafe")  to  refer  to  the  tobacco.  Whereupon,  to  make  it  plain, 
Valerio  says  "  I  meane  your  linstock,"  /'.  e.  the  pipe-light.  Pro- 
perly "linstock  "  is  a  stick  with  a  forked  head  to  hold  a  lighted 
match. 

101,  48-51.  my  boy  .  .  .  weeke  after:  apparently  a  cur- 
rent joke  in  the  early  seventeenth  century.    Jonson  told  it  to  Drum- 


136  ^otts 

mond,  who  recorded  it  in  a  MS.  volume  of  miscellanies  as  follows: 
"  One  who  had  fired  a  pipe  of  tobacco  with  a  ballet  [ballad]  sweare 
he  hearde  the  singing  of  it  in  his  head  thereafter  the  space  of  two 
dayes."     {Archaeologka  Scotka,  iv,  78.) 

loi,  56.  without  hat  or  knee:  without  taking  off  his  hat 
or  kneeling  in  honour  of  the  ladies.  Collier  quotes  from  R.  Junius 
[Drunkard's  Character,  1638):  "  Wine  worshippers  will  be  at  it 
on  their  knees,  especially  if  they  drink  a  great  man's  health." 

101,  63.  runne  all  a  head:  all  run  headlong  without  order 
or  restraint. 

102,  65.  elephant  .  ,  .  joynts:  that  the  elephant  had  no 
joints  and  could  not  kneel  was,  according  to  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
"an  old  and  grey-headed  error  even  in  the  days  of  Aristotle." 
{Vulgar  Errors,  in,  i.) 

102,  73.  Dar.  Health  to  Gazetta:  this  speech,  I  think, 
certainly  belongs  to  Dariotto,  rather  than,  as  in  the  Quarto,  to  Claudio. 
Dariotto  has  been  ordered  to  drink  upon  his  knees,  but  up  to  this 
point  has  been  prevented  by  the  interruptions.  It  cannot  be  Claudio 
who  drinks  here,  for  the  drawer  is  ordered  to  fill  for  his  draught 
below,  1.  76.  Moreover,  the  sentiment  which  the  speaker  utters  is 
far  more  appropriate  in  Dariotto's  mouth  than  in  Claudio's. 

102,  77.  sett  mee  :  set  a  stake,  make  a  bet,  with  me  on 
the  next  cast  of  the  dice. 

102,  77.  let  the  :  it  seems  plain  that  we  have  to  do  here 
with  a  simple  corruption.  The  "mee"  after  "sett"  has  been 
repeated  after  "let"  by  the  transcriber  or  printer,  and  the  comma 
at  the  close  of  the  line  in  the  Quarto,  introduced  to  set  off  what 
was  now  thought  of  as  an  independent  phrase.  But  "come"  in 
the  next  line  must  have,  as  the  context  shows,  a  subject  in  the  third 
person,  and  this  subject  is  "  the  rest." 

102,  78.  done  .  .  .  right :  to  do  a  man  right,  or  reason, 
was  a  usual  expression  in  pledging,  or  returning  a  health.  Cf.  2  King 
Henry  IV,  v,  iii,  76. 

103,  85.  lets  sett  him  round  :  let  all  of  us  (round  the 
table)  bet  against  his  throw.  Valerio  accepts  and  cries  "at  all," 
meaning  that  he  casts  against  all  the  others. 

103,  94.  I  barr  :  as  Gostanzo  speaks  he  comes  forward  from 
the  back-stage,  where  he  has  been  standing,  to  the  table  where  the 


#otes;  137 

revellers  are  sitting.  We  must  suppose  Fortunio  and  Bellanora  to 
fly  to  the  side  of  the  stage,  where  they  remain  until  Fortunio  comes 
forward  to  thank  Gostanzo  (1.  146).  Valeria,  however,  is  by  this 
time  in  a  state  where  the  appearance  of  his  father  does  not  cause  him 
the  least  concern.  On  the  contrary,  he  invites  the  old  man  to  join 
them. 

104,  98.  thriftie  sentences  :  prudent  maxims. 

104,  100.  a  pudding  has  two  :  an  old  proverb  (see  Bohn's 
Handbook  of  Pro-verhs,  p.  89)  runs  :  "  Everything  has  an  end  and 
a  pudding  has  two."  Mr.  P.  A.  Daniel  suggests  emending  "  time  " 
(1.  99)  to  "  term  "  in  order  to  bring  the  text  nearer  to  the  proverb. 

104,  100-103.  satisfaction  .  .  .  insinuate:  deliberate 
nonsense  in  ridicule  of  Gostanzo' s  "sentences." 

104,  103.  a  tryall :  Valerio  encourages  Gostanzo,  who  is 
inarticulate  with  rage,  to  speak  out.  The  drunken  insolence  of 
Valerio  in  this  scene  may  have  been  suggested  by  that  of  Syrus  to 
Demea  in  the  Adelphi,  v,  i.  Cf  the  phrases  "thunder  forth," 
"sentences,"  "wisely,"  with  "  Ohe  jam  tu  verba  fundis  hie 
sapientia?"    {Adelphi,  v,  i,  7.) 

104,  112.  at  cittie :  Collier  suggests  "  o'  th'  city"  ;  but 
"  come  at  "  was  used  for  "  come  to."  See  Neiv  English  Dic- 
tionary, sub  '  at '  I  z  a. 

104,114.    comes  upon:    is  attacking,  "hitting  at." 

105,  122.    for  cullour  sake  :    for  the  sake  of  the  pretence. 
IDS,  125.  Gratianas   bed-chamber:   the  revelation  by 

which  Gostanzo' s  eyes  are  finally  opened  is  borrowed  almost  verb- 
ally from  the  Heautontimorumenos  (v,  i,  29-41).  Cf.  "Is  there 
any  ...  his  wife  "  (U.  133-134)  with  Heautontimorumenos,  v,  i, 
38-40: 

an  dubium  id  tibi  est  >. 

quemquamne  animo  tarn  comi  esse,  aut  leni  putas, 

qui  se  vidente  amicam  patiatur  suam  I 

Cf.  also  11.  135-138,  "  Why  not  .  .  .  eyes"  and  "  deare  deceit 
.  .  .  deceiver,"  with  Heautontimorumenos,  v,  i,  41,  and  v,  i, 
45-46.  Also,  1.  144,  "  give  my  daughter  all,"  W\t\i  Heautontimo- 
rumenos, v,  i,  69. 

106,  142.  peece  of  worke  :  a  mighty  matter.  Ironically, 
since  Gostanzo  does  not  propose  to  trouble  himself  about  a  little 
thing  like  breaking  his  oath. 


138  i^otf0 

108,  196.  come  cut  and  long-tayle  :  a  proverbial  saying 
equivalent  to  "  against  all  comers,"  '*  bar  none."  Nares  (Glossary^ 
vol.  I,  p.  220)  gives  "  cut"  =  '*  curtail  cur. "  Cf.  Merry  fVi-ves 
of  Windsor,  iii,  iv,  47. 

109,  202-203.    looke  to  her  TVater  :  diagnose  her  case. 
109,  214-216.    Young  men  .  .  .  fooles:  quoted  by  Camden 

{^Remains,  1 605 )  as  a  well-known  saying  of  a  certain  Dr.  Medcalfe. 

109,  223.    bridle  .   .   .    Stomack  :  restrain  her  high  spirit. 

109,  224.    draw  on  the  CUllour:  obtain  a  pretext. 

no,  239-240.  within  my  COmpasse  :  into  my  stratagem, 
or  device. 

no,  241.  in  graine  :  an  abbreviated  form  of  "dyed  in 
grain,"  =  dyed  scarlet,  a  "  fast  "  colour.  Hence  "  in  grain  "  = 
"  genuine  through  and  through,"  often  with  a  contemptuous  sense. 
Cf  the  modern  slang  phrase  "dyed  in  the  wool." 

no,  249-250.  potable  humour:  flowing  vein,  probably 
also  with  an  allusion  to  Valerio's  potations. 

Ill,  280.  w^orthier  crest:  cf.  the  song  in  As  You  Like 
It,  IV,  ii. 

113,  324.  Saturnian  bull  :  the  bull  which  was  really  the 
son  of  Saturn,  ;'.  e   Jupiter. 

113,  328.  hold  by  the  home:  a  play  on  "home,"  per- 
haps also  on  "hold  by"  in  the  two  senses  of  "cling  to,"  as 
Europa  did,  and  "  retain,  keep,"  as  Europe  does. 

113,  333.  I  have  read:  this  fable  of  .^sop's  occurs  in 
More's  Life  of  Richard  III,  and  also  in  Camden's  Remains.  Chap- 
man may  have  seen  it  in  either  of  these. 

114,  354-355.  fine  .  .  .  offices:  it  was  not  an  uncommon 
practice  in  England  at  one  time  for  rich  citizens  to  evade  election 
to  unwelcome  offices  by  paying  down  a  certain  sum  to  the  public 
coffers.    Cf.  The  Alchemist,  1,  414. 

116,  II.  welcome:  a  substitute  for  an  obvious  rhyme.  Of 
the  six  copies  of  the  Quarto  that  I  have  seen,  that  in  the  Advocates' 
Library  at  Edinburgh,  that  in  the  Bodleian,  and  the  two  in  the  British 
Museum  have  a  parenthesis  (  )  in  this  line  before  -welcome.  So,  I 
hear,  has  the  B.  P.  L.  copy.  The  copies  in  the  Edinburgh  Uni- 
versity Library  and  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum  lack  this  mark. 


THE  DEDICATION"   OF  ALL   FOOLS 

TO    MY    LONG    LOV' D    AND     HONOURABLE    FRIEND    SIR 
THOMAS    WALSINGHAM    KNIGHT  2 

Should  I  expose  to  every  common  eye, 

The  least  allow'  d  birth  of  my  shaken  braine } 
And  not  entitle  it  perticulerly 

To  your  acceptance,  I  were  wurse  then  vaine. 
And  though  I  am  most  loth  to  passe  your  sight 

with  any  such  light  marke  of  vanitie. 
Being  markt  with  Age  for  Aimes  of  greater  weight, 

and  drownd  in  darke  Death-ushering  melancholy. 
Yet  least  by  others  stealth  it  be  imprest, 

without  my  pasport,  patcht  with  others  wit. 
Of  two  enforst  ills  I  elect  the  least  ; 

and  so  desire  your  love  will  censure  it  ; 

1  This  dedication  is  here  printed  from  the  slip  bound  up  in  Dyce's  copy 
of  the  Quarto.  It  agrees  exactly  with  the  reprint  in  the  Pearson  edition  of 
Chapman,  vol.  i ,  p.  in,  except  that  the  latter  has  a  misprint '  beway  '  for 
'  bewray  '  in  the  last  line. 

2  Sir  Thomas  Walsingham,  a  kinsman  of  Elizabeth  s  great  minister, 
was  a  courtier  and  patron  of  literature  in  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and 
James  I.  He  seems  to  have  entertained  Marlowe;  and  the  publisher  of 
Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leander  dedicated  the  first  edition  of  this  poem  to 
him,  as  Chapman  did  his  continuation  of  Marlowe's  work  to  Lady  Wal- 
singham. In  1608  Chapman  dedicated  to  him  and  to  his  son  the  two 
Biron  plays  in  words  which  at  least  seem  to  imply  that  the  poet  had 
never  before  dedicated  any  work  to  him  — the  phrase  is  :  "  I  know  you 
ever  stood  little  affected  to  these  unprofitable  rites  of  Dedication  (which 
disposition  in  you  hath  made  me  hetherto  dispense  with  your  right  in  my 
other  impressions)."  Mr.  Sidney  Lee  suggests  that  the  words  may  meaa 
that  other  copies  of  the  1608  edition  of  Bjrron  lacked  this  dedication.  It 
appears,  however,  so  far  as  I  know,  in  all  extant  copies  of  these  plays,  and 
the  obvious  meaning  of  the  words  is  that  noted  above. 


I40  ^pprnDijc 

Though  my  old  fortune  keep  me  still  obscure, 
The  light  shall  still  bewray  my  ould  love  sure. 

This  dedication,  a  sonnet  in  the  Shakespearian  form, 
does  not  appear  in  any  old  copy  that  I  have  been  able  to 
see,  viz.,  those  in  the  Edinburgh  University  Library, 
Advocates'  Library,  British  Museum,  Bodleian,  Victoria 
and  Albert  Museum,  and  the  Boston  Public  Library. 
Nor  is  it  found  in  the  Duke  of  Devonshire's  copy  at 
Chatsworth,  in  the  two  copies  belonging  to  Mr.  T.  J. 
Wise,  nor  in  that  at  Britwell  Court. 

The  first  reprint  of  All  Fools  (Dodsley's  Old  Plays, 
1780)  did  not  contain  this  dedication.  The  second  re- 
print (^Select  Collection  of  Old  Plays,  ed.  by  J.  P.  Collier, 
1825)  contains  it,  with  the  following  note  by  the  editor  : 

"This  dedication  by  Chapman  to  his  patron  is  now  for 
the  first  time  inserted,  the  copies  of  '  All  Fools'  seen  and 
used  by  Mr.  Reed  [/'.  e.  the  editor  of  the  1780  Dodsley] 
being  without  it.  Whether  it  was  inserted  in  a  few  im- 
pressions in  1605  and  afterwards  cancelled  does  not  ap- 
pear, though  it  seems  probable  that  it  was  so,  because  in 
the  dedication  of  his  '  Byron's  Conspiracy  and  Tragedy,' 
1608,  to  the  same  distinguished  individual.  Chapman 
apologises  for  previous  neglect  and  seeming  ingratitude  to 
his  patron  '  in  dispensing  with  his  right  in  his  other  im- 
pressions.' It  was  found  in  a  copy  in  the  possession  of 
Mr.  Rodd,'  of  Great  Newport  Street." 

This  copy  seems  afterwards  to  have  come  into  Col- 
lier's own  possession,  for  a  MS.  note  in  Dyce's  hand  in 
the  quarto  now  in  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum 
says  : 

"The  Dedication  to  Walsingham  is  found  only  in 
a  single  copy  of  this  play  which  belongs  to  Mr.  Collier, 

1   A  well-known  bookseller  of  that  time,  mentioned  by  Collier,  in  Hii- 
tory  of  Dramatic  Poetry,  vol.  3,  p.  79  n. 


;appenDiF  141 

He  reprinted  twelve  copies  of  that  Dedication,  and  one 
of  them  is  inserted  here." 

Since  we  have  no  other  testimony  to  the  authenticity 
of  the  dedication  than  Collier's  statement,  the  suspicion 
at  once  arises  that  it  may  be  only  one  of  the  "  mystifica- 
tions "  of  that  ingenious  scholar.  And  this  suspicion  is 
strengthened  by  the  inconsistency  of  Collier's  own  state- 
ments in  re  the  dedication  in  his  two  editions  of  The 
History  of  Dramatic  Poetry.  In  1831  he  says  (iii,  393) 
that  Chapman's  dedication  of  his  All  Fools,  1 605,  '*  seems 
to  have  been  cancelled  in  many  copies."  In  1879  he 
speaks  of  it  (iii,  74)  as  "  a  sonnet  prefixed  to  only  a  few 
copies";  but  later  on  (iii,  196)  he  says  it  "seems  to 
have  been  cancelled  in  all  extant  copies."  This  is  an 
extraordinary  remark  if  he  had  himself  possessed  a  1605 
quarto  containing  the  dedication. 

It  has  been  suggested  to  me  by  Mr.  T.  J.  Wise  that 
the  sonnet  may  be  a  genuine  poem  by  Chapman,  the 
dedication  of  some  other  work,  wrongly  bound  up  in  a 
copy  of  All  Fools,  with  which  it  had  originally  no  con- 
nexion (there  is  no  mention  of  the  play  by  name  in  the 
sonnet).  No  such  poem  is  known  to  me,  but  it  could  be 
determined,  I  suppose,  by  an  investigation  of  the  Collier 
quarto  whether  the  sonnet  found  there  were  printed  by 
an  Elizabethan  printer. 

Mr.  W.  C.  Hazlitt  informs  me  that  Collier's  copy 
did  contain  the  dedication,  and  that  it  was  sold  with  the 
library  of  Mr.  Ouvry  at  Sotheby's.  In  Sotheby's  cata- 
logue of  the  sale  of  the  library  of  Frederic  Ouvry,  March 
30,  1882,  Lot  254  is  *<  G.  Chapman's  Al  Fooles,  a 
comedy  :  with  the  Dedicatory  Sonnet  to  Sir  T.  Walsing- 
ham,  T.  Thorpe  Quarto,  1605."  This  copy  was  sold 
for  i/.  1 2 J.  to  Robson,  the  booksellers,  i.  e.  Messrs.  Rob- 
son  &  Co. ,  2  3  Coventry  Street.  Messrs.  Robson  are  unable 


142  ^ppenDijc 

at  present  to  inform  me  who  purchased  the  copy  from 
them,  and  all  my  efforts  to  discover  its  present  location 
have  been  in  vain. 

The  price  seems  very  low  for  a  copy  of  All  Fools  con- 
taining what  was  supposed  to  be  the  only  original  and 
contemporary  example  of  the  dedication.  And  this  leads 
me  to  suspect  that  the  dedication  here  noted  may  be 
nothing  more  than  one  of  the  twelve  reprints  which  Col- 
lier had  made. 

In  itself  the  dedication,  which  has  been  generally  re- 
ceived since  Collier  printed  it  as  a  genuine  poem  by 
Chapman,'  is  not  suspicious.  Its  phrasing  and  turn  of 
thought  seem  to  me  rather  like  what  Chapman  might 
have  written,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  be  considered  as  per- 
emptorily stigmatising  it  as  a  forgery.  But  Collier  was 
at  least  as  skilful  as  he  was  conscienceless  in  his  extraor- 
dinary inventions,  and  the  evidence  for  the  authenticity 
of  the  dedication  rests  at  present  wholly  upon  Collier's 
word.  Such  being  the  case,  I  have  considered  it  the  pru- 
dent course  to  remove  the  dedication  from  its  usual  place 
at  the  beginning  of  the  play  and  to  print  it  in  an  ap- 
pendix with  a  statement  of  the  reasons  which  have  led  me 
to  doubt  its  authenticity.  If  Collier's  copy  oi  All  Fools 
should  ever  come  to  light  the  question  would,  I  suppose, 
be  settled  positively. 

I  Fleay,  Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama,  vol.  I,p.  59,  notes  that  its 
genuineness  has  been  suspected,  but  he  does  not  say  by  whom,  and  seems 
himself  inclined  to  accept  it. 


TEXT 

The  Gentleman  Usher  was  entered  under  the  title  of  Vincentio 
and  Margaret  for  Valentine  Syms  in  the  Stationers^  Register  on 
November  26,  1605.  It  was  printed  in  quarto  form  in  1606  by 
V.  S.  (Valentine  Syms)  for  Thomas  Thorppe,  who  had  published 
All  Fooles  in  1605,  and  was  later  to  publish  The  Conspiracy  and 
Tragedy  of  Byron,  1608.  No  reprint  appeared  till  1 873,  when  it 
was  included  in  The  Comedies  and  Tragedies  of  George  Chapman, 
published  by  John  Pearson.  The  Quarto  text  was  reproduced  with 
the  original  spelling  and  punctuation,  but  with  a  number  of  errors, 
a  few  grave.  A  later  edition  with  modernised  spelling  and  punctu- 
ation, and  a  few  emendations,  appeared  in  1 8  74  in  The  fVorks  of 
George  Chapman  —  Plays,  edited  by  R.  H.  Shepherd  and  published 
by  Chatto  and  Windus. 

For  the  present  edition  the  text  has  been  transcribed  from  a  copy 
of  the  Quarto  in  the  Malone  Collection  at  the  Bodleian,  and  has 
been  collated  with  the  two  copies  at  the  British  Museum  and  with 
that  in  the  Dyce  Collection  in  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum. 
The  differences  between  these  copies  amount  at  most  to  an  occa- 
sional variation  in  punctuation  or  the  replacing  of  a  dropped  letter. 
Clearly  they  belong  to  one  edition.  The  Quarto  was  evidently 
printed  from  an  acting  copy  and  there  is  no  reason  to  think  it  was 
revised  by  the  author.  The  original  spelling  has  been  retained  ; 
but  the  capitalisation  has  been  modernised,  and  the  use  of  italics 
for  proper  names  abandoned.  The  punctuation  has  been  revised 
throughout,  but  wherever  the  old  punctuation  might  indicate  a 
different  construction  attention  has  been  called  to  it  in  a  footnote. 
A  few  evident  misprints,  such  as  facel :  et  for  face  :  let,  i,  i,  64, 
and  Snite  for  Suite,  i,  ii,  31,  etc. ,  have  been  silently  corrected.  The 
few  conjectural  emendations  are  included  in  brackets,  [  ],  and 
distinguished  by  "Emend,  ed."  in  the  footnotes.  Shepherd's 
emendations  when  recorded  are  distinguished  by  S. 

In  the  Quarto  the  play  is  in  five  acts  of  one  scene  each.  Further 
scene-divisions  have  been  made,  in  brackets,  wherever  there  is  an 
evident  change  of  place.  Additions  to  stage-directions  have  also 
been  bracketed.  The  whole  name  of  each  speaker,  in  modern 
form,  and  normalised,  is  prefixed  to  his  first  speech  in  each  scene. 


SOURCES 

The  immediate  source  of  the  play  is  not  known.  The  love- 
intrigue  is  so  clearly  conceived  and  so  steadily  carried  through  as  to 
suggest  that  Chapman,  wfhose  forte  was  by  no  means  invention, 
borrowed  it  entire  from  some  French  or  Italian  novel.  A  few  scenes 
to  which  attention  is  called  in  the  Notes  are  suggested  by,  or  perhaps 
borrowed  from,  the  earlier  play  of  &>  Gyles  Goose-capfe.  As  to 
the  connection  between  the  characters  of  Bassiolo  and  Malvolio  see 
Introduction,  pp.  xliii,  xliv. 

In  a  Nachtrag  to  his  Siuelkn-Studien  in  den  Dramen  Chapman  s, 
etc.,  page  221,  Professor  Koeppel  has  pointed  out  certain  similar- 
ities between  The  Gentleman  Usher,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
anonymous  plays.  The  fVisdom  of  Dr.  Dodypoll,  and  The  History 
of  the  Trial  of  Chi-valry,  on  the  other.  The  first,  printed  in 
1600  and  reprinted  by  Mr.  Bullen  [Old  Plays,  vol.  iii,  1884), 
tells  among  other  things  the  story  of  the  unsuccessful  passion  of  a 
Duke  Alphonso  for  the  Lady  Hyanthe,  daughter  of  Earl  Cassimere, 
who  loves  and  is  beloved  by  the  Duke's  son,  Alberdure.  Apart 
from  the  name  of  the  father,  Alphonsus,  the  only  thing  in  com- 
mon to  the  plays  is  the  theme  of  the  father's  love  for  his  son's 
mistress,  and  this  may  go  back  in  each  case  to  a  common  source, 
the  story  of  Zenothemes  and  Menecrates  in  Lucian's  Toxaris. 

The  similarity  between  two  episodes  in  The  Gentleman  Usher 
and  The  Trial  by  Chi-valry  is  more  apparent.  In  the  latter  play, 
entered  S.  R.,  December  4,  1604,  but  probably  written  much 
earlier,  the  metre  and  technic  point  to  the  sixteenth  century.  A 
rejected  suitor  smears  a  lady's  face  with  poison  which  makes  her 
"spotted,  disfigured,  a  loathsome  leper."  The  prince  to  whom 
she  is  betrothed,  however,  insists  upon  carrying  out  his  contract  of 
marriage,  although  the  lady  declares  that  she  is  unworthy.  The 
situation  is  closely  akin  to  that  in  the  last  scene  of  The  Gentle- 
man Usher,  and  the  similarity  is  heightened  by  the  fact  that  in  each 
case  the  lady  is  cured  by  a  wonder-working  physician,  in  The  Gen- 
tleman Usher  by  Benivemus,  in  The  Trial  by  a  hermit,  skilled  in 
"physic."  It  seems  quite  possible  that  Chapman  lifted  the  whole 
episode  of  the  poison  from  this  earlier  play. 


GE  NTLEM AN 

V  S  H  E  %^ 

By 
George  Chapman. 


»3f^in«»-  inn<»wr'^iii^>g^T»a«i»iw»a»ia<wMr^T| 


AT    LO  NDO  IL 

PrintcdbyV.S.  forThomasThorppe. 
1   ^   o    6» 


[DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

Duke  Alphonso. 

Strozza,  a  Lord. 

PoGio,  the  foolish  nepheiv  o/"  Strozza. 

Prince  Vincentio,  son  o/"  Alphonso. 

Medice,  the  fa'vorite  of  Alphonso. 

Sarpego,  a  Pedant. 

Earl  Lasso,  an  old  Lord. 

Bassiolo,  gentleman  usher  to  Lasso. 

Fungus,  a  ser-vant  of  Lasso. 

Benivemus,  a  Doctor. 

Julio,  a  Courtier. 

A  Ser-vant  of  Medice. 

Cynanche,  wife  of  Strozza. 
CoRTEZA,  sister  o/"  Lasso. 
M.4RGARET,  daughter  o/"  Lasso. 
Ancilla. 

Attendants,  Servants,  Huntsmen,  Guard,  Tivo  Pages,  Maids, 

Figures  in  the  Masques 

Enchanter,  Spirits,  Sylvanus,  a  Nymph. 
Broom-man,  Rush-man,  Broom-maid,  Rush-maid,  a  man-bug,   a 
•woman-bug. 

Scene  —  Italy.] 


Dramatis  Persona.    Supplied  by  Editor. 


Cl^e  d^entleman  m^tt 


Actus  Primus.  Sc^na  Prima. 

[^Before  the  House  of  Strozza.'\ 
Enter  Strozza,  Cynanche,  and  Pogio. 

Strozza.   Haste,  nephew  ;  what,  a  sluggard  ? 
Fie  for  shame  ! 
Shal  he  that  was  our  morning  cock  turn  owle, 
And  locke  out  day  light  from  his  drowsie  eies  ? 

Pogio.   Pray  pardon  mee  for  once,  lord  unkle, 
for   He   bee  sworne  I  had  such  a  dreame  this     s 
morning :   me  thought  one  came  with  a  com- 
mission to     take     a    sorrell    curtoll,   that    was 
stolne  from  him,  wheresoever  hee  could  find  him. 
And  because  I  feared  he  would  lay  claime  to  my 
sorrell  curtoll  in  my  stable,  I  ran  to  the  smith   lo 
to  have  him  set  on  his  mane  againe  and  his  taile 
presently,  that  the  Commission-man  might  not 
thinke    him  a    curtoll.    And    when    the    smith 
would  not  doe  it,  I  fell  a  beating  of  him,  so  that 
I  could  not  wake  for  my  life  til  I  was  revenged  15 
on  him. 


148  XE^\)t  i&tntltmm  Wiii\)tt        [acti. 

Cynanche.   This   is  your  old  valure,  nephew, 
that  will  fight  sleeping  as  well  as  waking. 

Pog.   Slud,  aunt,  what  if  my  dreame  had  beene 
true  (as   it    might    have    beene    for  any  thing  I   20 
knew)  ?    There  's  never  a  smith  in  Italie   shall 
make  an  asse  of  me  in  my  sleepe  if  I  can  chuse. 
Stro.   Well  said,  my   furious  nephew  :   but   I 
see 
You  quite  forget  that  we  must  rowse  to  day 
The  sharp-tuskt  bore,  and  blaze  our  huntsman- 
ship  25 
Before  the  Duke. 

Pog.   Forget,  lord   unkle  ?    I  hope  not  ;    you 

thinke  belike  my  wittes  are  as  brittle  as  a  beetle, 

or  as  skittish  as  your  Barbarie  mare  :  one  cannot 

crie  "  wehie,"  but  straight  shee  cries  "  tihi."  30 

Stro.   Well  ghest,  coosen  Hysteron  Proteron  ! 

Pog.   But   which   way  will   the  Dukes  Grace 

hunt  to  day  ? 
Stro.  Toward  Count  Lassos  house  his  Grace 
will  hunt. 
Where  he  will  visit  his  late  honourd  mistresse. 
Pog.   Who,  Ladie  Margaret,  that  deare  yong 
dame  ?  35 

Will  his  antiquitie  never  leave  his  iniquitie  ? 
Cyn.   Why,  how   now,  nephew?    turnd   Par- 
nassus lately  ? 
Pog.  "  Nassus  ? "    I  know  not :  but  I  would  I 


Scene  L]  ^\)t  (Qmtitmm  M&\)tt  149 

had  all  the  Dukes  living  for  her  sake,  Ide  make 
him  a  poore  duke,  ifaith.  4° 

Stro.  No  doubt  of  that,  if  thou  hadst  all  his 
living. 

Pog.  I  would  not  stand  dreaming  of  the  mat- 
ter as  I  do  now. 

Cyn.   Why  how  doe  you  dreame,  nephew  ? 

Pog.   Mary,  all  last  night  me  thought  I   was  4S 
tying  her  shoostring. 

Stro.  What,  all  night  tying  her  shoostring  ? 

Pog.  I,  that  I  was,  and  yet    I    tied    it    not 
neither ;   for  as  I  was  tying  it,  the  string  broke, 
me  thought,  and  then,  me  thought,  having  but  50 
one  poynt  at  my  hose,  me  thought,  I  gave  her 
that  to  tie  her  shoo  withall. 

Cyn.  A  poynt  of  much  kindnesse,  I  assure 
you. 

Pog.   Wherupon,    in     the    verie     nicke,    me  55 
thought,    the    Count  came   rushing   in,    and    I 
ranne   rushing  out,  with   my   heeles  about    my 
hose  for  haste. 

Stro.   So  ;  will  you  leave  your  dreaming,  and 
dispatch  ? 

Pog.   Mum,  not  a  worde  more;  He  goe  before,  60 
and  overtake  you  presently.  Exit  [Pogio'^ . 

Cyn.   My   lord,   I    fancie    not  these  hunting 
sports 
When  the  bold  game  you  follow  turnes  againe, 


150  tETlie  <*5entleman  t^fiilier        [acti. 

And  stares  you  in  the  face  :  let  me  behold 

A  cast  of  faulcons  on  their  merry  wings,  65 

Daring  the  stooped  prey  that  shifting  flies : 

Or  let  me  view  the  fearefull  hare  or  hinde 

Tosst  like  a  musicke  point  with  harmonic 

Of  well  mouthed  hounds.     This  is  a  sport  for 

princes, 
The    other    rude ;  boares    yeeld    fit    game    for 

boores.  7° 

Stro.  Thy  timorous   spirit  blinds  thy  judge- 
ment, wife  ; 
Those  are  most  royall  sports  that  most  approve 
The  huntsmans  prowesse  and  his  bardie  minde. 
Cyn.   My  lord,  I   know  too  well  your  vertu- 
ous  spirit ; 
Take  heede,  for  Gods  love,  if  you  rowse  the 

bore,  75 

You  come  not  neere  him,  but  discharge  aloofe 
Your  wounding  pistoll  or  well  aymed  dart. 
Stro.   I,    mary,    wife,    this  counsaile    rightly 
flowes 
Out  of  thy  bosome ;    pray  thee  take  lesse  care  ; 
Let  ladies  at  their  tables  judge  of  bores,  80 

Lords  in  the  field  :   and  so  farewell,  sweete  love ; 
Faile  not  to  meete  me  at  Earle  Lassos  house. 

70   rude  ;  boares.    Q(\,  rude  Boares.      Punctuation  suggested  to 
the  editor  by  Mr.  P.  A.  Daniel. 

74  -vertuous.      Mr.  Daniel  suggests,  venturous. 


Scene  I.]      ^^t  ^mtlttmn  Wig\)n  151 

Cyn.  Pray  pardon  me  for  that :  you  know  I  love 
not 
These  solemne  meetings. 

Stro.  You  must  needes,  for  once, 

Constraine  your  disposition  ;   and  indeede  85 

I  would  acquaint  you  more  with  Ladie  Margaret, 
For  speciall  reason. 

Cyn.  Very  good,  my  lord. 

Then  I  must  needes  go  fit  me  for  that  presence. 
Stro.   I  pray  thee  doe ;   farewell. 

Exit  Cyn  [anche] . 
Here  comes  my  friend. 
Enter  Vincentio. 
Good  day,  my  lord ;  why  does  your  Grace  confront  90 
So  cleare  a  morning  with  so  clowdie  lookes  ? 
Vincentio.   Ask'st  thou  my  griefes,  that  knowst 
my  desprate  love 
Curbd  by  my  fathers  sterne  rivalitie.? 
Must  I  not  mourne  that  know  not  whether  yet 
I  shall  enjoy  a  stepdame  or  a  wife  ?  95 

Stro.  A  wife,  Prince,  never  doubt    it ;  your 
deserts 
And  youthfull  graces  have  engag'd  so  farre 
The  beauteous  Margaret  that  she  is  your  owne. 

Vin.   O  but  the  eie  of  watchfull  jealousie 
Robs  my  desires  of  meanes  t'  injoy  her  favour.    100 
Stro.   Despaire  not :  there  are  meanes  enow 
for  you ; 


152  tE^^e  (Scntleman  tlll0l)er        [acti. 

Suborne  some  servant  of  some  good  respect 
Thats  neere  your  choice,  who,  though  she  needs 

no  wooing, 
May  yet  imagine  you  are  to  begin 
Your  strange  yong  love  sute,  and  so  speake  for 

you,  105 

Beare  your  kind  letters,  and  get  safe  accesse. 
All  which  when  he  shall  do,  you  neede  not  feare 
His  trustie  secrecie,  because  he  dares  not 
Reveale  escapes  whereof  himselfe  is  author; 
Whom  you  may  best  attempt,  she  must  reveale  ;  no 
For  if  she  loves  you,  she  already  knowes, 
And  in  an  instant  can  resolve  you  that. 

Fin.   And  so  she  will,  I  doubt  not :  would  to 

heaven 
I  had  fit  time,  even  now,  to  know  her  minde: 
This  counsaile  feedes  my  heart  with  much  sweet 

hope.  ,15 

Stro.   Pursue  it  then ;  t'will   not   be   hard 

t'efFect : 
The  duke  haz  none  for  him  but  Medice, 
That  fustian  lord,  who  in   his  buckram  face 
Bewraies,  in  my  conceit,  a  map  of  basenesse. 

Fin.   I,  theres  a  parcell  of  unconstrued  stuffe,  120 
That  unknowne  minion  raisde  to  honours  height 
Without  the  helpe  of  vertue  or  of  art. 
Or  (to  say  true)  [of  any]  honest  part : 

123   of  any  honest,  emend.  S.    Qq,  nay  of  honest. 


Scene  I]      ^^t  ^mtltxttm  Wiii\)et  153 

0  how  he  shames  my  father !   he  goes  like 

A  princes  foote-man,  in  old   fashioned  silkes,      i^S 
And  most  times  in  his  hose  and  dublet  onely; 
So  miserable,  that  his  owne  few  men 
Doe  beg  by  vertue  of  his  liverie; 
For  he  gives  none,  for  any  service  done  him, 
Or  any  honour,  any  least  reward.  13° 

Stro.    Tis    pittie    such    should    live    about    a 
prince: 

1  would  have  such  a  noble  counterfet  nailde 
Upon  the  pillory,  and,  after,  whipt 

For  his  adultery  with  nobilitie. 

f^in.   Faith,  I  would  faine  disgrace  him  by  all 
meanes,  US 

As  enemy  to  his  base-bred  ignorance, 
That,  being  a  great  lord,  cannot  write  nor  reade. 
Stro.   For  that,  wee'le  follow  the  blinde  side 
of  him. 
And  make  it  sometimes  subject  of  our  mirth. 
Enter  Pogio  paste  ^-haste^ . 
Fin.   See,   what    newes    with    your    nephew 

Pogio  ?  140 

Stro.  None  good,  I  warrant  you. 
Pog.  Where  should  I  finde  my  lord  unckle  ? 
Stro.   Whats  the  huge  haste  with  you  ? 
Pog.   O  ho,  you  will  hunt  to  day  ! 
Stro.   I  hope  I  will.  145 

124  Ae  shames,  emend,  S.    Qq,  she  shames. 


154  ^\)t  (3mtitmzn  Mii\)tt        [acti. 

Pog.  But  you  may  hap  to  hop  without  your 
hope  :   for  the  truth  is  Kilbucke  is  runne  mad. 

Stro.   Whats  this  ? 

Pog.   Nay,  t'is  true,  sir  :   and  Kilbucke,  being 
runne  mad,  bit  Ringwood  so  by  the  left  but-iso 
tocke,  you  might  have  turnd  your  nose  in  it. 

Fin.   Out,  asse  ! 

Pog.  By  heaven,  you  might,  my  lord  :  d'ee 
thinke  I  lie  ? 

Fin.  Zwoundes,  might  I?    Lets  blanket  him,  155 
my  lord  ;  a  blanket  heere  ! 

Pog.  Nay,  good  my  lord  Vincentio,  by  this 
rush  I  tell  you  for  good  will :  and  Venus,  your 
brache  there,  runnes  so  prowd  that  your  hunts- 
man cannot  take  her  downe  for  his  life.  160 

Stro.   Take  her  up,  foole,  thou  wouldst  say. 

Pog.  Why,  sir,  he  would  soone  take  her  down, 
and  he  could  take  her  up,  I  warrant  her. 

Fin.   Well  said,  hammer,  hammer  ! 

Pog.   Nay,  good  now,  lets  alone.  [^To  Strozza.'\ie^ 
And  theres  your  horse.  Gray  Strozza,  too,  haz 
the  staggers,  and  haz  strooke  Bay  Bettrice,  your 
Barbary  mare,  so  that  shee  goes  halting  a  this 
fashion,  most  filthily. 

Stro.  What  poison  blisters  thy  unhappy  tongue,  170 
Evermore  braying  forth  unhappy  newes  ? 
Our  hunting  sport  is  at  the  best,  my  lord ; 
How  shall  I  satisfie  the  Duke  your  father, 


Scene  I]  XE^i^t  &tntitmm  Wiii\)tt  155 

Defrauding  him  of  his  expected  sport  ? 
See,  see,  he  comes.  '75 

Enter  Alphonso,  Medice,  Sarpego,  with  attetidants. 

Alphonso.   Is  this  the  copie  of  the  speech  you 
wrote,  Signieur  Sarpego  ? 

Sarpego.   It  is  a  blaze  of  wit  poeticall ; 
Reade  it,  brave  Duke,  with  eyes  pathetical. 

Jlp.   We  will  peruse  it  strait :   well  met,Vin- 

centio,  i8o 

And  good  Lord  Strozza  ;  we  commend  you  both 
For  your  attendance ;  but  you  must  conceive 
Tis  no  true  hunting  we  intend  to  day, 
But  an  inducement  to  a  certaine  shew. 
Wherewith  we  will  present  our  beauteous  love,  185 
And  therein  we  bespeake  your  company. 

Vin.    We  both  are  ready  to  attend  your  High- 
nesse. 

Jlp.  See  then,  heere  is  a  poeme  that  requires 
Your  worthy  censures,  ofFerd,  if  it  like. 
To  furnish  our  intended  amorous  shew ;  190 

Reade  it,  Vincentio. 

Vin.  Pardon  me,  my  Lord, 

Lord  Medices  reading  will  expresse  it  better. 

Medice.   My  patience  can  digest  your  scoffes, 
my  lord. 
I  care  not  to  proclaime  it  to  the  world  : 
I  can  nor  write  nor  reade  ;  and  what  of  that  ?    195 
I  can  both  see  and  heare  as  well  as  you. 

177  Signieur  Sarptgo.      Qq,  separate  line. 


156  ^\)t  iS)tnt\tmm  M&^tt        [acti. 

J/p.    Still  are  your  wits  at  warre.     [To  Fin- 

centio.'\     Heere,  read  this  poeme. 
Vtn.    [reads] .  "  The  red  fac'd  sunne  hath  firkt 
the  flundering  shades, 
And  cast  bright  ammell  on  Auroraes  brow." 
Jlp.   High  words  and  strange  !  Reade  on,  Vin- 

centio.  200 

Vin.    [reads'].    "The  husky  groves   that  gag- 
tooth'd  boares  do  shrowd 
With  cringle  crangle  homes  do  ring  alowd." 

Pog.    My  lord,  my  lord,  I  have  a  speech  heere 
worth  ten  of  this,  and  yet  He  mend  it  too. 
Jlp.   How  likes  Vincentio  ? 

Vin.  It  is  strangely  good,  205 

No  inkehorne  ever  did  bring  forth  the  like. 
Could  these  brave  prancing  words  with  actions 

spurre 
Be  ridden  throughly  and  managed  right, 
T'would  fright  the  audience,  and  perhaps  delight. 
Sar.   Doubt  you  of  action,  sir  ? 
Vin.  I,  for  such  stuffe.  210 

Sar.  Then  know,  my  lord,  I  can  both  act  and 
teach 
To  any  words  ;   when  I  in  Padua  schoolde  it, 
I  plaid  in  one  of  Plautus  comedies, 
Namely,  Curculio^  where  his  part  I  acted. 
Projecting  from  the  poore  summe  of  foure  lines  215 
Forty  faire  actions. 

■^IP'  Lets  see  that,  I  pray. 


Scene  I]  ^}^t  (&mtltmm  MUl^tt  157 

Sar.  Your  Highnesse  shall  commaund  ; 
But  pardon  me,  if  in  my  actions  heate 
Entering  in  post  post  haste,  I  chaunceto  take  up 
Some  of  your  honord  heels. 

Pog.  Y'ad  best  leave  out  220 

That  action  for  a  thing  that  I  know,  sir. 

Sar.  Then  shal  you  see  what  I  can  do  without 

it.  ^Sarpego puts  on  his  parasite  s  dress.'^ 

Alp.   See,  see,  he  hath  his  furniture  and  all. 

Sar.   You  must   imagine,  lords,  I  bring  good 

newes. 

Whereof  being    princely  prowd   I    scowre  the 

streete  2.25 

And  over-tumble  every  man  I  meete. 

Exit  Sarp  \ego^ . 
Pog.   Beshre  w  my  heart  if  he  take  up  my  heeles ! 

r^^-]  enter  Sarp  [ego  as  Ciirculio~\ . 
Sar.  [running  wildly  about  the  stage']. 
Date  viam  mihi^  noti   atq  [tie']  ignoti^  dum  ego  hie 

officium  meum 
Facio  :  fugite  omnes.,  ahite  et  de  via  secedite^ 
Ne  quern    in   cursu   capite  aut   cubito  aut  pectore 

offiendam  aut  genu.  *3° 

220—221    Vad  .  .  .  knoiv,  sir.      Qq,  2  11.  of  prose. 

228-230  Date  .  .  .  genu.    Corrected  by  Teubner  Plautus. 

Qq  read  :    Date  -viam  mihi  Noti,  atq,  Ignoti. 

Dum  ego,  hie,  officium  meum  facio. 

Fugite  omnes  atq^  abite  &  de  -via  secedite,  ne  quern 

in  cursu  ;  aut  capite,  aut  cubito,  aut  pectore  offendam,  aut  genu. 


158  XB\)t  (3mt\tmm  Msl^tt        [acti. 

^Ip.    Thankes,  good  Seigneur  Sarpego. 
How  like  you,  lords,  this  stirring  action  ? 

Stro.    In  a  cold    morning  it  were  good,  my 
lord. 
But  something  harshe  upon  repletion. 

Sar.    Sir,  I  have  ventred,  being  enjoynde,  to 
eate  *3S 

Three  schollers  commons,    and    yet    drewe    it 
neate, 
Pog.    Come,    sir,  you   meddle  in    too    many 
matters  ;  let  us,  I  pray,  tend  on  our  owne  shew 
at  my  lord  Lassos. 

Sar.    Doing  obeisance  then  to  every  lord,       240 
I  now  consorte  you,  sir,  even  toto  corde. 

Exit  Sarp\_eg6\   b"  Pog\io\. 
Med.    My  lord,  away  with  these  scholastique 
wits. 
Lay  the  invention  of  your  speech  on  me, 
And  the  performance  too ;   lie  play  my  parte 
That  you  shall  say.  Nature  yeelds  more  then  Art.  245 

Alp.    Bee't  so  resolv'd;  unartificiall  truth 
An  unfaind  passion  can  descipher  best. 

Vin.    But  t'wil  be  hard,  my  lord,  for  one  un- 

learnd. 
Med.    "  Unlearnd  ?  "    I  cry  you  mercie,  sir  j 

"  unlearnd  ? " 
Vin.    I  meane  untaught,  my  lord,  to   make  a 
speech  ^5° 


Scene  I]  tE^t  (QtXXtitXmn  ^S})tt  159 

As  a  pretended  actor,  without  close 
More  gratious  then  your  doublet  and  your  hose. 
JIp.    What,  thinke    you,  sonne,  we   meane 

t'  expresse  a  speech 
Of  speciall  weight  without  a  like  attire  ? 

Fin.    Excuse  me  then,  my  lord  ;   so  stands  it 

well.    \_JIphonso  puts  rich  robes  on  Medice.'\  255 
Stro.  l^aside'] .    Haz  brought  them  rarely  in  to 

pageant  him. 
Med.    What,  thinke  you,  lord,  we  thinke  not 

of  attire  ? 
Can  we  not  make  us  ready  at  this  age  ? 

Stro.  [to  Jlphonso'] .    Alas,  my  lord,  your  wit 

must  pardon  his. 
Fin.    I  hope  it  will,  his  wit  is  pittyfull.  260 

Stro.    [to  Medice']  .    I  pray  stand  by,  my  Lord  ; 

y'  are  troublesome. 
lMed.'\  To  none  but  you  ;  am  I  to  you,  my 

lord  ? 
[Fin.']   Not  unto  mee. 
[Med.]  Why,  then,  you  wrong  me, 

Strozza. 
[^Fin.]  Nay,  fall  not  out,  my  lords. 
Stro.  May  I  not  know 

What  your  speech  is,  my  Liege  ?  265 

251   close;  so  Qq.    S,  clothes. 

262-264  To  none  .  .  .  lords.  In  Qq  Medice's  speeches  are  given 
to  Vincentio,  and  -vice  -versa.  The  present  assignment  renders  the 
passage  intelligible.    See  Notes,  p.  283. 


i6o         tB\)t  ^mtltmm  Wisi^tt        [acti. 

J/p.  None  but  my  selfe  and  the  Lord  Medice. 
Afed.   No,  pray,  my  lord. 
Let  none  partake  with  us. 

-^//>.  No,  be  assur'd, 

But  for  another  cause ;  a  word,  Lord  Strozza ; 
I  tell  you  true  I  feare  Lord  Medice  270 

Will  scarce  discharge  the  speach  effectually  : 
As  we  goe,  therefore.  He  explaine  to  you 
My  whole  intent,  that  you  may  second  him 
If  neede  and  his  debilitie  require. 

Stro.  Thanks  for  this  grace,  my  Liege. 

Fincetitio  overheares  \them\ . 
Med.  My  lord,  your  Sonne!  2.75 

Alp.   Why,  how  now,  sonne  ?   Forbeare.   Yet 
tis  no  matter. 
Wee  talke  of  other  businesse,  Medice  ; 
And  come,  we  will  prepare  us  to  our  shew. 

Exeunt  \_Alphonso,  Medice,  and  attendants'^ . 
Stro.  [and^  Fin.  Which  as  we  can  weele  cast 
to  overthrow. 

\^Exeunt  Strozza  and  Vincentio.~\ 


Scene  II.]      t!^\)t  <3tntltmm  Wiii\)tt  l6l 

[SCillNA     SecUNDA. 
j4  Room  in  the  House  of  Lord  Lasjo.'j 

Enter  Lasso,  Bassiolo,  Sarpego,  two  Pages.    Bassiolo 
bare  before  ^tbe  rest^  . 

Bassiolo.   Stand  by  there,  make  place. 

Lasso.   Sale  now,  Bassiolo,  you  on  whom  relies 
The  generall  disposition  of  my  house 
In  this  our  preparation  for  the  Duke, 
Are  all  our  officers  at  large  instructed  5 

For  fit  discharge  of  their  peculiar  places  ? 

Bas.  At  large,  my  lord,  instructed. 

Las.  Are  all  our  chambers  hung  ?  Thinke  you 
our  house 
Amplie  capacious  to  lodge  all  the  traine  ? 

Bas.   Amply  capacious,  I  am  passing  glad.         lo 
And  now  then  to  our  mirth  and  musicall  shew, 
Which  after  supper  we  intend  t'  indure. 
Welcomes  cheefe  dainties ;  for  choice  cates  at 

home 
Ever  attend  on  princes,  mirth  abroad. 
Are  all  parts  perfect  ? 

Sarpego.  One  I  know  there  is.         is 

Las.  And  that  is  yours. 

Sar.  Well  guest,  in  earnest,  lord  ; 

Qq    read  :  Enter  Lasso,  Correza,  Margaret,  Bassiolo,  etc.  ;   but 
the  proper  entry  for  the  ladies  occurs  below,  after  1.  37. 

12   t^  indure;    so   Qq.    Dr.    Bradley  suggests  t' induce.      15-16 
\Otte  .    .    .  yours.    In  Qq  one  line. 


1 62  ^^t  (5mt\tmm  Wi&})tt        [acti. 

I  neede  not  erubescere  to  take 

So  much  upon  me ;  that  my  backe  will  beare. 

Bas.  Nay,  he  will  be  perfection  it  selfe 
For  wording  well  and  dexterous  action  too.  ^o 

Las.  And  will  these  waggish  pages  hit  their 
songs  ? 

[^Both']  Fogies'].    Re  mi  fa  sol  la  ! 

Las.  O  they  are  practising ;  good  boyes,  well 
done ; 
But  where  is  Pogio  ?    There  y'  are  overshot, 
To  lay  a  capitall  part  upon  his  braine,  ^5 

Whose  absence  tells  me  plainely  hee'le  neglect 
him. 

Bas.  O  no,  my  lord,  he  dreames  of  nothing 
else, 
And  gives  it  out  in  wagers  hee'le  excell ; 
And  see,  (I  told  your  Lofrdship],)  he  is  come. 
Enter  Pogio. 

Pogio.    How  now,  my  lord,  have  you  borrowed   30 
a  suite  for  me  ?    Seigneur  Bassiolo,  can  all  say, 
are  all  things  ready  ?    The  Duke  is  hard  by,  and 
little  thinks  that  He  be  an  actor,  ifaith  ;  I  keepe 
all  close,  my  lord. 

Las.   O,  tis  well  done  ;  call  all  the  ladies  in.   35 
Sister  and  daughter,  come,  for  Gods  sake,  come. 
Prepare  your  courtliest  carriage  for  the  Duke. 

22    Both  Pages.    Qq,  2  Pag. 

29  Lordship.    Emend.  S.    Qq,  Lo  : 


Scene  II.]  tB\)t  i&mtltmm  Wi^il^tt  1 63 

EriUr  Corte[za\,  Margarite,  and  Maids. 
Corteza.   And,  neece,  in  any  case  remember 
this, 
Praise  the  old  man,  and  when  you  see  him  first, 
Locke  me  on  none  but  him,  smiling  and   lov- 
ingly ;  40 
And  then,  when  he  comes  neere,  make  beisance 

low, 
With  both  your  hands  thus  moving,  which  not 

onely 
Is,  as  t'were,  courtly,  and  most  comely  too. 
But  speakes,  (as  who  should  say,  "  Come  hither, 

Duke.") 
And  yet  sales  nothing  but  you  may  denie.  45 

Las.   Well  taught,  sister. 
Margaret.  I,  and  to  much  end  : 

I  am  exceeding  fond  to  humour  him. 

Las.    Harke  !   does   he  come  with  musicke  ? 
what,  and  bound  ? 
An  amorous  device  :   daughter,  observe  ! 
Enter    Enchanter,   with   spirits    singing  ,•  after    them 
Me  dice  like  Sylvanus  ,•  next,  the  Duke  bound,  Vincen- 
tio,  Strozza,  with  others. 

Vincentio    ^aside  to  Strozza'^ .     Now   lets    gull 
Medice  ;   I  doe  not  doubt  50 

But  this  attire  put  on  will  put  him  out. 

44  ai  .    .    .  Duke.      In  Qq   the  parenthesis    only  includes  the 
words,  ai  .    .    .  say. 


1 64  tD^lje  ^entlnnan  m^^er        [acti. 

Strozza  [aside  to   Vincentio] .   Weele  doe  our 
best  to  that  end,  therefore  marke. 

Enchanter.    Lady,    or    Princesse,    both    your 
choice  commands. 
These  spirits  and  I,  all  servants  of  your  beautie. 
Present  this  royall  captive  to  your  mercie,  SS 

Mar.   Captive  to  mee  a  subject  ? 

yin.  I,  faire  nimph  ; 

And  how  the  worthy  mystery  befell 
Sylvanus  heere,  this  woodden  god,  can  telL 

Jlphonso.   Now,  my  lord. 

Vin.   Now  is  the  time,  man,  speake. 

Medice.  Peace, 

Alp.  Peace,  Vincentio.  60 

Vtn.  Swonds,  my  Lord  ! 
Shall  I  stand  by  and  suffer  him  to  shame  you  ? 
My  Lord  Medice  ! 

Stro.  Will  you  not   speake,  my  lord  ? 

Med.    How  can  I  ? 

Vin.  But  you  must  speake,  in  earnest : 

Would  not  your  Highnesse  have  him  speake, 

my  lord?  65 

Med.  Yes,  and   I    will   speake,  and    perhaps 
speake  so 
As  you  shall  never  mend:  I  can,  I  know. 

Vin.   Doe  then,  my  good  lord. 

Alp.  Medice,  forth. 

Med.  Goddesse,  faire  goddesse,  for  no  lesse, — 
no  lesse —  \_Medice  is  at  a  los5.'\ 


Scene  II.]  ^\)t  (3tX\tltmm  Wiii\)tt  1 65 

JIp.   [to  Strozza] .    No  lesse,  no  lesse  ?    No 

more,  no  more  !    Speake  you.  70 

Med.   Swounds  !   they  have  put  me  out. 

f^in.  Laugh  you,  fair  goddesse? 

This  nobleman  disdaines  to  be  your  foole. 

J/p.  Vincentio,  peace. 

Fin.   Swounds,  my  lord,  it  is  as  good  a  shew ! 
Pray  speake.  Lord  Strozza. 

Stro.  Honourable  dame  —  75 

Fin.   Take  heede  you  be  not  out,  I  pray,  my 
lord. 

Stro.   I  pray  forbeare,  my  Lord  Vincentio. 
How  this  destressed  Prince  came  thus  inthralde 
I  must  relate  with  words  of  height  and  wonder : 
His  Grace  this  morning  visiting  the  woods,  80 

And  straying  farre  to  finde  game  for  the  chase. 
At  last  out  of  a  mirtle  grove  he  rowsde 
A  vast  and  dreadfull  boare,  so  sterne  and  fierce. 
As  if  the  feend,  fell  Crueltie  her  selfe. 
Had  come  to  fright  the  woods  in  that  strange 

shape.  ^5 

J/p.  Excellent  good ! 

Fin.  [aside']  .        Too  good,  a  plague  on  him ! 

Stro.  The    princely    savage     being    thus    on 
foote. 
Tearing  the  earth  up  with  his  thundering  hoofe, 
And  with  the  'nragde  ^Etna  of  his  breath 

71  you.    Emend.  S.     Qq,  your. 


1 66  ^\)t  (Qmtltmm  Wi&^tt        [acti. 

Firing  the  ayre  and  scorching  all  the  woods,         90 
Horror  held  all  us  huntsmen  from  pursuit ; 
Onely  the  Duke,  incenst  with  our  cold  feare, 
Incouragde  like  a  second  Hercules  — 
f^in.  [aside^.   Z wounds,  too  good,  man  ! 
Stro.   [^aside^.  Pray  thee  let  me  alone. 

And    like    the    English    signe    of    great    Saint 

George  —  95 

Vin.   \aside^ .   Plague  of  that  simile  ! 
Stro.    Gave  valorous  example,  and,  like  fire, 
Hunted  the  monster  close,  and  chargde  so  fierce 
That  he  inforc'd   him  (as  our  sence  conceiv'd) 
To  leape  for  soile  into  a  cristall  spring,  100 

Where  on  the  suddaine  strangely  vanishing, 
Nimph-like,  for  him,  out  of  the  waves  arose 
Your  sacred  figure,  like  Diana  armde. 
And  (as  in  purpose  of  the  beasts  revenge) 
Dischargde   an   arrow  through    his    Highnesse 

breast,  105 

Whence  yet  no  wound  or  any  blood  appearde  j 
With  which  the  angry  shadow  left  the  light : 
And  this  Enchanter,  with  his  power  of  spirits. 
Brake  from  a  cave,  scattering  enchanted  sounds 
That  strooke  us  sencelesse,  while  in  these  strange 

bands  no 

These  cruell  spirits  thus  inchainde  his  armes, 
And  led  him  captive  to  your  heavenly  eyes, 
Th'  intent  whereof  on  their  report  relies. 


Scene  II.]         ^\)t  &mt\tmm  M&\)tt  1 67 

En.   Bright  Nimph,  that  boare  figur'd  your 
crueltie, 
Chared  by  love,  defended  by  your  beautie.  "S 

This  amorous  huntsman  heere  we  thus  inthral'd, 
As  the  attendants  on  your  Graces  charmes, 
And  brought  him  hither,  by  your  bounteous  hands 
To  be  releast,  or  live  in  endlesse  bands. 

Las.  Daughter,  release  the  Duke :   alas !   my 
Liege,  »" 

What   meant    your    Highnesse   to    indure   this 
wrong  ? 
Cor.   Enlarge  him,  neece  ;  come,  dame,  it  must 

be  so. 
Mar.   What,    madam,    shall    I    arrogate    so 

much  ? 
Las.  His  Highnesse  pleasure  is  to  grace  you  so. 
JIp.  Performe  it  then,  sweete  love  ;  it  is  a 
deede  '^S 

Worthy  the  office  of  your  honor'd  hand. 

Mar.  Too  worthie,  I  confesse,  my  lord,  for 
me, 
If  it  were  serious  :   but  it  is  in  sport. 
And  women  are  fit  actors  for  such  pageants. 

[^Sbe  unbi7ids  Alphonso.'\ 
Alp.  Thanks,  gracious  love ;   why  made  you 

strange  of  this  ?  13° 

115  Chared,  so  Qq ;  S,  chased.   Dr.  Bradley  suggests  "  charged," 
as  in  1.  98. 


1 68  ^\)t  (&mtltmnn  M6\}tt        [acti. 

I  rest  no  lesse  your  captive  then  before  ; 
For,  me  untying,  you  have  tied  me  more. 
Thanks,  Strozza,  for  your  speech  ;    [^to  Afedice."] 
no  thanks  to  you. 

A<fed.  No,  thanke  your  sonne,  my  Lord  ! 

Las.  T'was  very  well. 

Exceeding  well  performed  on  every  part.  135 

How  say  you,  Bassiolo  ? 

Bas.  Rare,  I  protest,  my  lord. 

Cor.   O,  my  lord  Medice  became  it  rarely; 
Me  thought  I  likde  his  manlie  being  out  ; 
It  becomes  noblemen  to  doe  nothing  well. 

Las.   Now  then,  wil  't  please  your  Grace  to 
grace  our  house,  14° 

And  still  vouchsafe  our  service  further  honour  ? 

y///>.   Leade  us,  my  lord  ;  we  will  your  daugh- 
ter leade. 

^Exeunt  all  but  Vincentio  and  Stroz,z.a.'\ 

Vin.  You  do  not  leade,  but  drag  her  leaden 
steps. 

Stro.   How  did  you  like  my  speech  ? 

Vin.  O  fie  upon  't ! 

Your  rhetoricke  was  too  fine. 

Stro.  Nothing  at  all :   14s 

I  hope  Saint  Georges  signe  was  grosse  enough  : 
But  (to  be  serious)  as  these  warnings  passe. 

Exeunt  .    .    .    Strozza.    Qq  have  only  Exit. 
144-145  HoTv  .  .  .  all.    Qq  print   as   three   lines:    Hotv  .  .  . 
speech  ?  \  0     .  .  fine.  \  Nothing   .    .   .   all.  \ 


Scene  II.]         ^\)t  (&tntltmm  ^^^W  1 69 

Watch  you  your  father,  He  watch  Medice, 
That  in  your  love-suit  we  may  shun  suspect : 
To  which  end,  with  your  next  occasion,  urge     150 
Your  love  to  name  the  person  she  will  choose, 
By  whose  meanes  you  may  safely  write  or  meete. 
Fin.  Thats  our  cheefe  businesse :   and   see, 
heere  she  comes. 

Ef2ier  Margaret  in  haste. 
Mar.   My  lord,  I  onely  come  to  say  y'  are 
welcome. 
And  so  must  say  farewell. 

yin.  One  word,  I  pray.    iSS 

Mar.   Whats  that  ? 

Vin.  You  needes  must  presently  devise 

What  person,  trusted  chiefely  with  your  guard. 
You  thinke  is  aptest  for  me  to  corrupt, 
In  making  him  a  meane  for  our  safe  meeting. 

Mar.   My  fathers  usher,  none  so  fit,  J6o 

If  you  can  worke  him  well :   and  so  farewell. 
With  thanks,  my  good  Lord  Strozza,  for  your 
speech.  Exit  [Margaret']. 

Stro.   I  thanke  you  for  your  patience,  mocking 

lady. 
Vin.   O  what  a  fellow  haz  she  pickt  us  out ! 
One  that  I  would  have  choosde  past  all  the  rest,  165 
For  his  close  stockings  onely. 

155-156  W«i/  .    .    .   de-vise.    Qq    print    as    three    lines:    And 
.    .    .  fareivell.  \  One  .    .    .   that  ?  \   Tou   .    .   .   de-vist.  | 


170  tE^lje  Gentleman  tttstjer        [acti. 

Stro.  And  why  not 

For  the  most  constant  fashion  of  his  hat  ? 

Vin.   Nay  then,  if  nothing   must   be  left  un- 
spoke, 
For  his  strict  forme  thus  still  to  weare  his  cloke. 

Stro.  Well  sir,  he  is  your  owne,  I  make  no 
doubt  J  170 

For,  to  these  outward  figures  of  his  minde, 
He  hath  two  inward  swallowing  properties 
Of  any  gudgeons,  servile  avarice. 
And  overweening  thought  of  his  owne  worth, 
Ready  to  snatch  at  every  shade  of  glory  :  175 

And,  therefore,  till  you  can  directly  boord  him. 
Waft  him  aloofe  with  hats  and  other  favours. 
Still  as  you  meete  him. 

Vin.  Well,  let  me  alone  ; 

He  that  is  one  mans  slave  is  free  from  none. 

Exeunt  \_t^incentio  and  Strozza\. 


Finis  Actus  Primi. 


Actus  Secundus.    Sc^na  Prima. 

[_j4  Room  in  the  House  of  Lasso.'\ 

Enter  Medice,  Corteza,  a  Page  with  a  cuppe  of  secke. 

Medice.   Come  lady,  sit  you  heere.    Page,  fill 
some  sacke. 
\^Aside.~\    I  am  to  worke  upon  this  aged  dame. 
To  gleane  from  her  if  there  be  any  cause 
(In  loving  others)  of  her  neeces  coines 
To  the  most  gratious  love  suite  of  the  Duke  : 
[To  Cortexa.']^    Heere,  noble  lady,  this  is  health- 
full  drinke 
After  our  supper, 

Corteza.  O,  tis  that,  my  lorde, 

That  of  all  drinkes  keeps  life  and  soule  in  me. 
Med.   Heere,  fill  it.  Page,  for  this  my  w^orthy 
love : 
\^Aside.'\  O  how  I  could  imbrace  this  good  olde 
widdow ! 
Cor.  Now,  lord,  when  you  do  thus,  you  make 
me  thinke 
Of  my  sweete  husband  ;  for  he  was  as  like  you  ; 
Eene  the  same  words  and  fashion,  the  same  eies. 

To  the  stage-direction,  Enter  .  .  .  secke,  Qq  add,  "  Strozza 
folloiving  close" -J  but  Strozza's  proper  entrance  is  marked  below, 
after  1.  27. 


172  t!^\)t  (3tnt\tmnn  Wi&\)tt       [acth. 

Manly  and  cholerike,  eene  as  you  are,  just ; 

And  eene  as  kinde  as  you  for  all  the  world.  15 

A^ed.   O  my  sweete  widdow,  thou  dost  make 
me  prowd. 

Cor.  Nay,  I  am  too  old  for  you. 

JHed.  Too  old,  thats  nothing; 

Come  pledge  me,  wench,  for  I  am  drie  againe. 
And  strait  will  charge  your  widdowhood  fresh, 
i faith  :  \_Sbe  drinks.'\ 

Why,  thats  well  done. 

Cor.  Now,  fie  on  't !   heeres  a  draught.   20 

Med.   O,  it   will  warme  your  blood  :   if  you 
should  sip, 
Twould  make  you  heart-burnd. 

Cor.  Faith,  and  so  they  say  : 

Yet  I  must  tell  you,  since  I  plide  this  geere 
I  have  beene  hanted  with  a  horson  paine  heere, 
And  every  moone,  almost,  with  a  shrewd  fever,  25 
And  yet  I  cannot  leave  it  :    for,  thanke  God, 
I  never  was  more  sound  of  winde  and  limbe. 

Enter   Strozza  [close.     Corteza  thrusts  out'\  a  great 

bumbasted  legge. 
Looke  you,  I  warrant  you  I  have  a  leg. 
Holds  out  as  hansomly  — 

Med.  Beshrew  my  life, 

But  tis  a  legge  indeed,  a  goodly  limbe  !  30 

Strozza  \_aside~\.   This  is  most  excellent! 

Med.  O  that  your  neece 


Scene!.]  XB\)t  <3tnt\tmm  WiSi)tt  1 73 

Were  of  as  milde  a  spirit  as  your  selfe  ! 

Cor.   Alas,  Lord   Medice,  would  you  have  a 
girle 
As  well  seene  in  behaviour  as  I  ? 
Ah,  shees  a  fond  yong  thing,  and    growne    so 

prowde,  35 

The  wind  must  blow  at  west  stil  or  sheele  be 
angry. 

Aled.   Masse,  so  me  thinke  [s]  ;  how  coy  shees 
to  the  Duke  ! 
I  lay  my  life  she  haz  some  yonger  love. 

Cor.   Faith,  like  enough. 

Afed.  Gods  me,  who  should  it  bee  ? 

Cor.   If  it  be  any  —  Page,  a  little  sacke —       4° 
If  it  be  any,  harke  now,  if  it  be  — 
I  know  not,  by  this  sacke,  —  but  if  it  be, 
Marke  what  I  say,  my  lord,  —  I  drink  tee  first. 

JHed.   Well   said,  good  widdow,  much   good 
do['t]  thy  heart! 
So  ;  now,  what  if  it  be  ? 

Cor.  Well,  if  it  be  —  45 

To  come  to  that  I  said,  for  so  I  said, — 
If  it  be  any,  tis  the  shrewde  yong  Prince ; 
For  eies  can  speake,  and  eies  can  understand, 
And  I  have  markt  her  eies  ;  yet,  by  this  cup. 
Which  I  will  onely  kiss  —       '[Sh  dririh  again.'\ 

37  thinkei.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  thinke. 
44  do''t.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  do. 


1 74  ^^t  Gentleman  M&i^tt       [act  h. 

Stro.   \_aside'\.  O  noble  crone!   5° 

Now  such  a  huddle  and  kettle  never  was. 

Cor.   I  never  yet  have  scene  —  not  yet,  I  say  — 
But  I  will  marke  her  after  for  your  sake. 

Aled.   And  doe,  I  pray  ;   for  it  is  passing  like  ; 
And  there  is  Strozza,  a  slie  counsailor  55 

To  the  yong  boy  :   O,  I  would  give  a  limbe 
To  have  their  knaverie  limm'd  and  painted  out. 
They  stand  upon  their  wits  and  paper-learning  : 
Give  me  a  fellow  with  a  naturall  wit. 
That  can  make  wit  of  no  wit,  and  wade  through  60 
Great  things  with  nothing,  when  their  wits  sticke 

fast: 
O,  they  be  scurvie  lords. 

Cor.  Faith,  so  they  be  ; 

Your  Lordship  still  is  of  my  mind  in  all, 
And  eene  so  was  my  husband. 

Aled.   [spying  Strozza],  Gods  my  life  ! 

Strozza  hath  evesdropt  here,  and  over-heard  us.   65 

Stro.  [asidel .  They  have  descried  me. 
[Coming  forward,]  What,  Lord  Medice, 

Courting  the  lustie  widow  ? 

Afed.  I,  and  why  not } 

Perhaps  one  does  as  much  for  you  at  home. 

Stro.   What,    cholericke,    man  ?    and  toward 
wedlocke  too  ? 

Cor.   And    if   he    be,    my    lord,  he  may  do 
woorse.  70 


Scene!.]  W\)t  <3mtitmm  Wi&\)tt  175 

Stro.   If  he  be  not,  madame,  he  may  do  bet- 
ter. 
Enter  Bassiolo  with  servants  with  rushes  and  a  carpet. 
Bassiolo.  My  lords,  and  madame,  the  Dukes 
Grace  intreates  you 
T'  attend  his  new-made  Dutchesse  for  this  night 
Into  his  presence. 

Stro.  We  are  readie,  sir. 

Exeunt  [Corteza,  Medice,  Strozza  and 

Bas.  Come  strew  this  roome  afresh  ;  spread 

here  this  carpet  ;  75 

Nay,  quickly,  man,  I  pray  thee  ;  this  way,  foole  ; 
Lay    me    it    smoothe    and    even  -,    looke    if  he 

will! 
This  way  a  little  more  ;  a  little  there. 
Hast  thou  no  forecast  ?   slood,  me  thinks  a  man 
Should  not  of  meere  necessitie  be  an  asse.  80 

Looke    how    he  strowes  here  too  :    come,  Sir 

Giles  Goosecap, 
I  must  do  all  my  selfe  ;  lay  me  um  thus, 
In  fine  smoothe  threaves,  looke  you,  sir,  thus,  in 

threaves. 
Perhaps  some  tender  ladie  will  squat  here, 
And  if  some  standing  rush   should   chance   to 

pricke  her,  85 

Shee'd  squeak  &  spoile  the  songs  that  must  be 

sung. 


176  W^t  (S^mtitmm  M&)^tt       [act  11. 

Enter  Fifi\_ceniio'^  and  Stroz  [z/?]  . 
Stro.   See  where  he  is  ;   now  to  him,  and  pre- 
pare 
Your  familiaritie, 

Vincent'io.  Save  you,  master  Bassiolo. 

I  pray  a  word,  sir;  but  I  feare  I  let  you. 
Bas.   No,  my  good  lord,  no  let. 
Vin.  I  thanke  you,  sir.  90 

Nay  pray  be  coverd  ;   O,  I  crie  you  mercie, 
You  must  be  bare. 

Bas.  Ever  to  you,  my  lord. 

Vin.   Nay,  not  to  me,  sir. 
But  to  the  faire  right  of  your  worshipfull  place. 

^Vincentio  uncovers^ 
Stro.  ^aside\.      A  shame   of  both  your  wor- 
ships. \Exit  Strozza.'^    95 
Bas.   What  means  your  lordship  ? 
Vin.   Onely  to  doe  you  right,  sir,  and  my  selfe 
ease. 
And  what,  sir,  will    there    be    some    shew  to 
night  ? 
Bas.  A  slender  presentation  of  some  musick 
And  some  thing  else,  my  lord. 

Vin.  T'is  passing  good,  sir  ;  100 

He  not  be  overbold  t'  aske  the  particulars. 
Bas.  Yes,  if  your  lordship  please. 
Vin.  O  no,  good  sir  ; 

Enter  Vincentio  .  .  .  Slrozza.    Qq  put  this  direction  after  Strozza's 
speech. 


Scene  I]  ^i^t  &mt[tmm  WiSi^tt  IJJ 

But  I  did  wonder  much  for,  as  me  thought, 
I  saw  your  hands  at  work. 

Bas.  Or  else,  my  lord, 

Our  busines  would  be  but  badly  done.  105 

Vin.   How  vertuous  is  a  worthy  mans  exam- 
ple ! 
Who  is  this  throne  for,  pray  ? 

Bas.  For  my  lords  daughter. 

Whom     the    Duke    makes     to     represent     his 
Dutches. 
Fin.  T'will   be   exceeding  fit ;    and   all   this 
roome 
Is  passing  wel  preparde  ;  a  man  would  sweare    no 
That  all  presentments  in  it  would  be  rare. 

Bas.   Nay,  see  if  thou  canst  lay   um  thus   in 
threaves. 

^Giving  Fincentio  a  bundle  of  rushes. "^ 
Vin.  In  threaves,  dee  call  it  ? 
Bas.  I,  my  lord,  in  threaves. 

Vin.  A  pretty  terme  ! 
Well,  sir,  I  thanke  you  highly  for  this  kindnesse,  1 15 
And  pray  you  alwayes  make  as  bold  with  me 
For  kindnesse  more  then  this,  if  more  may  bee. 
Bas.   O,  my  lord,  this  is  nothing. 
Vin.  Sir,  tis  much. 

And  now  He  leave  you,  sir ;  I  know  y'  are  busie. 
Bas.   Faith,  sir,  a  little. 

Vin.  I  commend  me  tee,  sir.  120 

Exit  Fin  ^centio^ . 


178  tIDtif  (Sentleman  tiaslier       [act  11. 

Bas.  A  courteous   prince,  beleeve  it ;   I   am 
sory 
I  was  no  bolder  with  him  ;   what  a  phrase 
He  usde  at  parting  !  "  I  commend  me  tee." 
He  h'ate,  yfaith  ! 

Enter  Sarpego  halfe  drest. 
Sarpego.   Good  Master  Usher,  will  you  dictate 
to  me  125 

Which  is  the  part*precedent  of  this  night-cap, 
And  which  posterior  ?    I  do  ignorare 
How  I  should  weare  it. 

Bas.  Why,  sir,  this,  I  take  it. 

Is  the  precedent  part;   I,  so  it  is. 

Sar.   And  is  all  well,  sir,  thinke  you  ? 

Bas.  Passing  well.  130 

Enter  Pogio  and  Fungus. 
Pogio.   Why,  sir,  come  on  ;  the  usher  shal  be 
judge  : 
See,  Master  Usher,  this  same  Fungus  here, 
Your  lords  retainer,  whom  I  hope  you  rule. 
Would  weare  this   better  jerkin   for  the  Rush- 
man 
When  I  doe  play  the  Broome-man,  and  speake 

first.  13s 

Fungus.  Why,  sir,  I  borrowed   it,  and  I  will 
weare  it. 

Enter.    .    .    drest.    After  this  direction  Qq  have  (?)  possibly  by 
mistake  for  (  !  )    omitted  after  ' '  yfaith. ' ' 


Scene  I.]  ^\)t  (Btntltmm  WiS\)tt  179 

Pog.  What,  sir,  in  spite  of  your  lords  gentle- 
man usher  ? 
Fun.  No  spite,  sir,  but  you  have  changde  twice 
already. 
And  now  would  ha't  againe. 

Pog.  Why,  thats  all  one,  sir, 

Gentillitie  must  be  fantastical).  '4° 

Bas.  I  pray  thee.  Fungus,  let  Master  Pogio 

weare  it. 
Fun.  And  what  shall  I  weare  then  ? 
Pog.  Why  here  is  one 

That  was  a  Rush-mans  jerkin,  and,  I  pray, 
Wer't    not  absurd  then  a  Broome-man  should 
weare  it  ? 
Fun.  Foe  !  theres  a  reason ;  I  will  keepe  it, 

sir.  145 

Pog.  "  Will,"    sir  ?    Then    do    your    office, 
Mais'ter    Usher, 
Make  him  put  off  his  jerkin  ;  you  may  plucke 
His  coate  over  his  eares,  much  more  his  jerkin. 
Bas.   Fungus,  y'ad  best  be  rulde. 
Fun.  "  Best,"  sir !   I  care  not. 

Pog.  No,    sir  ?    I    hope    you    are    my    lords 

retainer.  '5° 

I  neede  not  care  a  pudding  for  your  lord. 
But  spare  not,  keepe  it,  for  perhaps  He  play 
My  part  as  well  in  this  as  you  in  that. 

14Z-144  ^Ay  .   .    .    it.    Qq  print  as  two  lines  of  prose. 


1 80  tB^^t  Gentleman  Wi&i^tt       [act  h. 

Bas.   Well  said,  Master  Pogio. 
[71?  Fungus. '\  My  lord  shall  know  it. 

Enter  Corteza,  with  the  Broom-wench  ^  Rush- 
wench  in  their  petticotes,  clokes  over  them,  with  hats 
over  their  head-tyres. 

Cor.   Looke,   Master  Usher,  are  these  wags 
wel  drest  ?  155 

I  have  beene  so  in  labour  with  um  truly. 

Bas.  Y'ave  had  a  veriegood  deliverance,  ladie. 
\^Aside.'\  How  I  did  take  her  at  her  labour  there, 
I  use  to  gird  these  ladies  so  sometimes. 

Enter  Lasso,  with  Sylvan  and  a  Nymph,  a  man  bugge 
and  a  woman  \bug^ . 
1st  Bug.    I   pray,  my  lord,  must  not  I  weare 

this  haire  ?  160 

Lasso.  I   pray   thee,  aske    my  usher;  come, 

dispatch. 
The  Duke  is  readie  :   are  you  readie  there  ? 
2nd  Bug.  See,  Master  Usher;  must  he  weare 

this  haire  ? 
1st  Bug.  Pray,  Master   Usher,  where   must 

I  come  in  ? 
2nd  Bug.   Am  not  I  well  for  a  bug.  Master 

Usher?  165 

Bas.  What  stirre  is  with  these  boyes  here: 

God  forgive  me, 

160-169.    Except  in  1.  164  Qq  use  merely  I.  and  2.  to  indicate 
the  bugs'  speeches  j  1.   169  has  i .  Bug. 


Scene  I]  ^^t  ^mtleman  Wi$\)tt  1 8 1 

If  t'were  not  for  the  credite  on 't,  I  'de  see 
Your  apish  trash  afire  ere  I  'de  indure  this. 

1st  Bug.  But  pray,  good  Master  Usher  — 

Bas.  Hence,  ye  brats. 

You  stand  upon  your  tyre  ;  but  for  your  action  17° 
Which  you  must  use  in  singing  of  your  songs 
Exceeding  dexterously  and  full  of  life, 
I  hope  youle  then  stand  like  a  sort  of  blocks 
Without  due  motion  of  your  hands  and  heads. 
And  wresting  your  whole  bodies  to  your  words  ;  175 
Looke  too  't,  y'  are  best,  and  in  ;  go,  all  go  in. 

Pog.   Come  in,  my  masters  ;  lets  be  out  anon. 
Exeunt  [_all  but  Lasso  and  Bassioio~\  . 

Las.  What,  are  all  furnisht  well  ? 

Bas.  All  well,  my  lord. 

Las.   More   lights   then   here,   and  let    lowd 
musicke  sound. 

Bas.   Sound  musicke  !  ^*° 

Exeunt  ^Lasso  and Bassiolo^. 

Enter  Fincentio,  Strozza  bare,  Margaret,  Corteza  and 
Cynanche  bearing  her  traine.     After  her  the  Duke 
whispering  with  Medice,  Lasso  with  Bassiolo,  &c. 
Alphonso.  Advaunce  your  selfe,  faire  Dutch- 
esse,  to  this  throne. 

As  we  have  long  since  raisde  you  to  our  heart ; 

Better  decorum  never  was  beheld 

Then  twixt  this  state  and  you  :  and  as  all  eyes 

Now  fixt  on  your  bright  graces  thinke  it  fit,        185 

So  frame  your  favour  to  continue  it. 


1 82  tE^lje  €^entlnnan  tlUflifjer       [acth. 

Margaret.   My  lord,  but  to  obey  your  earnest 

will, 
And  not  make  serious  scruple  of  a  toy, 
I  scarce  durst  have  presumde  this  minuts  height. 
Las.  Usher,  cause  other  musicke;  begin  your 

shew.  19° 

Bas.  Sound,  consort ;  warne  the  pedant  to  be 

readie. 
Cor.   Madam,  I  thinke  you'le  see  a  prettie  shew. 
Cynanche.   I  can   expect   no   lesse   in   such  a 

presence. 
Alp.  Lo !    what   attention  and    state   beautie 

breedes, 
Whose  mo  [v]  ing  silence  no  shrill  herauld  needes.  195 
Enter  Sarpego, 
Sar.  Lords  of  high  degree. 

And  Ladies  of  low  courtesie, 

I,  the  Pedant,  here. 

Whom  some  call  schoolmaistere, 

Because  I  can  speake  best,  200 

Approch  before  the  rest. 
Fin.  A  verie  good  reason. 
Sar.  But  there  are  others  comming. 

Without  maske  or  mumming; 

For  they  are  not  ashamed,  ^05 

If  need  be,  to  be  named. 

Nor  will  they  hide  their  faces 

In  any  place  or  places  ; 

195   mo-ving.    Emend.  S.    Qq,  moning. 


Scene  I]      ^^^t  (5tnt\trmn  Win^tt  183 

For  though  they  seeme  to  come 
Loded  with  rush  and  broome,  ^'° 

The  Broomeman,  you  must  know, 
Is  Seigneur  Pogio, 
Nephew,  as  shall  appeare, 
To  my  Lord  Strozza  here  — 
Stro.  O  Lord!  I  thanke  you,  sir;  you  grace 

me  much.  ^'S 

[5tfr.]  And  to  this  noble  dame, 

Whome  I  with  finger  name. 

^Pointing  to  Cynanche.'] 
Fin.  A  plague  of  that  fooles  finger ! 
Sar.   And  women  will  ensue. 

Which,  I  must  tell  you  true,  220 

No  women  are  indeed. 
But  pages  made,  for  need. 
To  fill  up  womens  places 
By  vertue  of  their  faces. 
And  other  hidden  graces.  225 

A  hall,  a  hall  !   whist,  stil,  be  mum. 
For  now  with  silver  song  they  come. 
Enter   Pogio,    Fungus,   with  the  song,    Broome-maid, 
and  Rush-maid,  [Sylvan,  a  Nymph,  and  two  Bugs.'] 
After  which  Pogio  \speaks\. 
Pog.   Heroes,  and  heroines,  of  gallant  straine, 
Let  not  these  broomes  motes  in  your  eies  re- 
maine, 

xib-i-j  And  .    .    .    name.    In  Qq  these  lines  are  given  to  Strozza. 
Sjhan   .    .    .    Bugs.     Possibly  these  should  enter  after  1.  272. 


1 84  tE^lje  <Sfntleman  Msi^tt       [act  h. 

For   in  the  moone  theres  one   beares  with'red 

bushes ;  ^3° 

But  we  (deare  wights)  do  beare  greene  broomes, 

green  rushes, 
Whereof  these  verdant  herbals,  cleeped  broome, 
Do  pierce  and  enter  everie  ladies  roome : 
And  to  prove  them  high  borne,  and  no  base  trash. 
Water,  with  which  your  phisnomies  you  wash,  235 
Is  but  a  broome.    And,  more  truth  to  deliver. 
Grim  Hercules  swept  a  stable  with  a  river. 
The  wind,  that  sweepes  fowle  clowds  out  of  the 

ayre. 
And  for  you  ladies  makes  the  welken  faire, 
Is  but  a  broome  :  and  O  Dan  Titan  bright,        240 
Most  clearkly  calld  the  Scavenger  of  Night, 
What  art  thou  but  a  verie  broome  of  gold 
For  all  this  world  not  to  be  cride  nor  sold  ? 
Philosophy,  that  passion  sweepes  from  thought. 
Is   the   soules   broome,  and  by   all    brave  wits 

sought  :  245 

Now  if  philosophers  but  broomemen  are, 
Each  broomeman  then  is  a  philosopher. 
And  so  we  come  (gracing  your  gratious  Graces) 
To   sweepe  Cares  cobwebs  from   your    cleanly 

faces. 
j^/p.  Thanks,  good  Master  Broomeman. 
Fun.  For  me  Rushman,  then,  250 

242   fV/iat  .   .   .  gold.    Qq  place  (?)  after  this  line. 


Scene  I]  XI^\)t  &mt{tmm  Wi&^tt  1 85 

To  make  rush  ruffle  in  a  verse  of  ten  : 
A  rush,  which  now  your  heeles  doe  He  on  here  — 

\_Pointing  to  Fince?itio.'\ 

Fin.   Crie  mercie,  sir. 

Fun.  Was  whilome  used  for  a  pungent  speare, 
In  that  odde  battaile,  never  fought  but  twice        255 
(As  Homer  sings)  betwixt  the  frogs  and  mice. 
Rushes   make    true-love   knots ;    rushes    make 

rings ; 
Your  rush  maugre  the  beard  of  Winter  springs. 
And  when  with  gentle,  amorous,  laysie  lims 
Each  lord  with  his  faire  ladie  sweetly  swims        260 
On   these   coole  rushes,  they   may  with  these 

babies 
Cradles  for  children  make,  children  for  cradles. 
And  lest  some  Momus  here   might  now  crie, 

"Push!" 
Saying  our  pageant  is  not  woorth  a  rush, 
Bundles  of  rushes,  lo,  we  bring  along  265 

To   picke   his   teeth  that   bites   them   with  his 
tongue. 

Stro.  See,  see,  thats  Lord  Medice. 

Fin.  Gods  me,  my  lord  ! 

Haz  hee  pickt  you  out,  picking  of  your  teeth  ? 

Med.   What  picke  you  out  of  that  ? 

Stro.  Not  such  stale  stuffe 

As  you  picke  from  your  teeth. 

265  bring,  so  Qq  ;   P,  followed  by  S,  hung. 


1 86  XB\)t  (Qmtitmun  Wii\ltt       [acth. 

^Ip.  Leave  this  warre  with  rushes  :  270 

Good  Master  Pedant,  pray,  forth  with  your  shew. 
Sar.   Lo,  thus  farre  then  (brave  Duke)  you  see 
Meere  entertainement ;  now  our  glee 
Shall  march  forth  in  Moralitie  : 
''And   this   queint    Dutchesse  here   shall 

see  27s 

The  fault  of  virgine  nicetie. 
First  wooed  with  rurall  courtesie. 
Disburthen    them,     praunce     on     this 

ground. 
And  make  your  exit  with  your  round. 
[_Pogio  and  Fungus  dance  with  the  Broome- 
maid  and  Rush- maid  and  ]  exeunt. 

Well  have  they  daunc'd,  as  it  is  meet,    280 

Both  with  their  nimble  heades  and  feet. 

Now  as  our  country  girls  held  off, 

And  rudely  did  their  lovers  scofF, 

Our     Nymph      likewise      shall     onely 

glaunce 
By  your  faire  eies,  and  looke  askaunce    285 
Upon  her  female  friend  that  wooes  her, 
Who  is  in  plaine   field   forc'd  to  loose 

her. 
And  after  them,  to  conclude  all 
The  purlue  of  our  pastorall, 
A  female  bug,  and  eke  her  friend,  290 

Shall  onely  come  and  sing,  and  end. 


Scene  I]  ^\^t  (3mtltmm  MS\)tt  1 87 

Bugs  Song. 

l^Sar.'^   This,  Lady  and  Dutchesse,  we  conclude : 
Faire  virgins  must  not  be  too  rude: 
For  though  the  rurall,  wilde  and  antike, 
Abusde  their  loves  as  they  were  frantike,29S 
Yet  take  you  in  your  ivory  clutches 
This  noble  Duke,  and  be  his  Dutches. 
Thus  thanking  all  for  their  tacete^ 
I  void  the  roome,  and  cry  valete. 
Exit  ^Sarpego,  Nymph,  Sylvan  and  the  two 
Bugs] . 

Jlp.   Generally  well  and  pleasingly  performed.  3°° 

Mar.   Now  I  resigne  this  borrowed  majesty. 
Which  sate  unseemely  on  my  worthlesse  head, 
With  humble  service  to  your  Highnesse  hands. 

Jlp.   Well  you  became  it,  lady,  and  I  know 
All  heere  could  wish  it  might  be  ever  so.  305 

Stro.    [aside] .   Heeres  one  saies  nay  to  that. 

Vin.    [aside    to     Strozza] .    Plague    on     you, 
peace. 

Las.  Now  let  it    please  your    Highnesse   to 
accept 
A  homely  banquet  to  close  these  rude  sports. 

Jlp.  I  thanke  your  Lordship  much. 

Bas.  Bring  lights,  make  place.    3 10 

292    This.  B.  P.  L.,  Malone,  as  here,  but  with  Thus  as  catch- 
word for  page. 


1 88  ^tje  (Sentlrman  ^0|)er       [acth. 

Enter  Pogio  in  his  cloke  and  broome-mans  attire. 

Pog.   How  d'ee,  my  lord  ? 

Jlp.   O  Master  Broomeman,  you  did  passing 
well. 

Vin.  A !  you  mad  slave  you  !  you  are  a  tick- 
ling actor. 

Pog.   I  was  not  out  like  my  Lord  Medice. 
How  did  you  like  me,  aunt  ? 

Cyn.  O  rarely,  rarely.  315 

Stro.   O  thou  hast  done  a  worke  of  memory, 
And  raisde  our  house  up  higher  by  a  story. 

Vin.   Friend,    how    conceit    you    my    young 
mother  heere  ? 

Cyn,   Fitter  for  you,  my  lord,  than   for  your 
father. 

Vin.   No  more  of  that,  sweete  friend,  those 
are  bugs  words.  320 

Exeunt  [omnei^ . 

319   Finer.  .  .father.    Mr.  P.  A.  Daniel  suggests  assigning  this 
line  to  Bassiolo. 

Finis  Actus  Secundi. 


Actus  Tertii  Sci^NA  Prima. 

[^  Room  in  the  House  of  Lasso. '\ 

Medice  after  the  song  whispers  alone  with  his  servant, 

Medice.  Thou  art  my  trusty  servant,  and  thou 
knowst 
I  have  beene  ever  bountifull  lord  to  thee, 
As  still  I  w^ill  be  :  be  thou  thankfull  then. 
And  doe  me  now  a  service  of  import. 

Servant.   Any,  my   lord,  in   compasse  of  my 

life. 
Med.  To  morrow,  then,  the  Duke  intends  to 
hunt. 
Where  Strozza,  my  despightfull  enemie. 
Will  give  attendance  busie  in  the  chase. 
Wherein  (as  if  by  chance,  when  others  shoote 
At  the  wilde  boare)  do  thou  discharge  at  him. 
And  with  an  arrow  cleave  his  canckerd  heart. 
Ser.   I  will  not  faile,  my  lord. 
Med.  Be  secret,  then  ; 

And  thou  to  me  shalt  be  the  dear'st  of  men. 

Exeunt  [  Medice  and  Servant"^ . 


19°  tEljf  Gentleman  Tlll0l)er      [Acrm. 

[Sc^NA  SeCUNDA. 

Another  Room  in  the  House  of  Las  so. ~\ 
Enter  Vincentto  and  Bassiolo  \_severally'\ . 

Vincentio  ^aside'\  .  Now  Vanitie  and  Policie  in- 
rich  me 
With  some  ridiculous  fortune  on  this  usher. — 
Wheres  Master  Usher  ? 

Bas.  Now  I  come,  my  lord. 

Vin.   Besides,  good  sir,  your  shew  did  shew  so 
well. 

Bas.   Did  it,  in  deede,  my  lord  ? 

Vin.  O  sir,  beleeve  it ;     5 

Twas  the  best  fashiond  and  well  orderd  thing 
That  ever  eye  beheld  :   and,  there  withall. 
The  fit  attendance  by  the  servants  usde. 
The  gentle  guise  in  serving  every  guest 
In  other  entertainements  ;  every  thing  10 

About  your  house  so  sortfully  disposde, 
That  even  as  in  a  turne-spit  calld  a  jacke 
One  vice  assists  another,  the  great  wheeles, 
Turning  but  softly,  make  the  lesse  to  whirre 
About  their  businesse,  every  different  part  15 

Concurring  to  one  commendable  end, — 
So,  and  in  such  conformance,  with  rare  grace. 
Were  all  things  orderd  in  your  good  lordes  house. 

Bas.  The  most  fit  simile  that  ever  was. 


Scene  n.]         ^})t  (^mtltXttSin  MUl^tt  I9I 

rin.   But  shall  I  tell  you  plainely  my  conceit    20 
Touching  the  man  that    I    thinke  causde  this 
order  ? 

Bas.   I,  good  my  lord. 

Fin.  You  note  my  simile  ? 

Bas.  Drawne  from  the  turne-spit. 

Fin.  I  see  you  have  me. 

Even  as  in  that  queint  engine  you  have  seene 
A  little  man  in  shreds  stand  at  the  winder,  25 

And  seemes  to  put  all  things  in  act  about  him, 
Lifting  and  pulling  with  a  mightie  stirre, 
Yet  addes  no  force  to  it,  nor  nothing  does  : 
So  (though  your  lord  be  a  biave  gentleman 
And  seemes  to  do  this  busines),  he  does  nothing  ;   3° 
Some  man  about  him  was  the  festivall  robe 
That  made  him  shew  so  glorious  and  divine. 

Bas.   I  cannot    tell,    my    lord,    yet   I    should 
know 
If  any  such  there  were. 

Fin.  "  Should  know,"  quoth  you  ; 

I  warrant  you  know:   well,  some  there  be  35 

Shall  have  the  fortune  to  have  such  rare  men, 
(Like  brave  beasts  to  their  armes)  support  their 
state, 

29-30  though  .  .  .  busines.  In  Qq  the  parenthesis  includes  only 
the  words,  though  .  .  .  gentleman.  Line  30  in  Qq  is  printed  as 
two  lines  broken  at  busines. 

33—34   I  .   .    .  ivere.    This  speech  is  printed  as  one  line  in  Qq. 

35    /  "warrant you  inoiv,  so  Qq.    S,  warrant  you  you  know. 


192  W})t  Smtltmm  M&^tt      [acthi. 

When  others,  of  as  high  a  worth  and  breede, 
Are  made  the  wastefull  food  of  them  they  feede  : 
What  state   hath  your  lord  made  you  for  your 

service  ?  40 

Bas.   He  haz  beene  my  good  lord,  for  I  can 
spend 
Some  fifteene  hundred  crownes  in  lands  a  yeare. 
Which  I  have  gotten  since  I  serv'd  him  first. 

Fin.  No  more  then  fifteene  hundred  crownes 
a  yeare  ? 

Bas.   It   is   so   much    as   makes  me   live,   my 

lord,  45 

Like  a  poore  gentleman. 

Fin.  Nay,  tis  prettie  well  : 

But  certainely  my  nature  does  esteeme 
Nothing  enough  for  vertue  ;  and  had  I 
The  Duke  my   fathers  meanes,  all   should    be 

spent 
To  keepe  brave  men  about  me  :   but,  good  sir,     50 
Accept  this  simple  jewell  at  my  hands. 
Till  I  can  worke  perswasion  of  my  friendship 
With  worthier  arguments. 

Bas.  No,  good  my  lord, 

I  can  by  no  meanes  merite  the  free  bounties 
You  have  bestowed  besides. 

Fin.  Nay,  be  not  strange,  SS 

But  doe  your  selfe  right,  and  be  all  one  man 
In  all  your  actions  ;  doe  not  thinke  but  some 


Scene  II.]     Wi)t  ^tntitmm  Wisi\)tt  193 

Have  extraordinarie  spirits  like  your  selfe, 
And  wil  not  stand  in  their  societie 
On  birth  and  riches,  but  on  worth  and  vertue,     60 
With  whom  there  is  no  nicenesse,  nor  respect 
Of  others  common  friendship  ;  be  he  poore 
Or  basely  borne,  so  he  be  rich  in  soule 
And  noble  in  degrees  of  qualities, 
He  shall  be  my  friend  sooner  then  a  king.  65 

Bas.  Tis  a  most  kingly  judgement   in  your 

lordship. 
Fin.   Faith,  sir,  I  know  not,  but  tis  my  vaine 

humour. 
Bas.  O,  tis  an  honour  in  a  nobleman. 
Fin.  Y'ave  some  lords  now  so  politike  and 
prowd, 
They   skorne  to    give    good  lookes  to  worthy 

men.  7o 

Bas.   O  fie  upon  um  !  by  that  light,  my  lord, 
I  am  but  servant  to  a  nobleman. 
But  if  I  would  not  skorne  such  puppet  lords, 
Would  I  weare  breathlesse. 

Fin.  You,  sir  ?   So  you  may. 

For  they  will  cogge  so  when  they  wish  to  use 

men,  75 

With,  "  Pray  be  coverd,  sir,"  "  I   beseech  you 

sit," 
"  Whoe  's  there  ?   waite  of  Master  Usher  to  the 
doore." 


194  ^\\t  (3mt\emRn  Wi&\)tt      [acthi. 

O,    these    be    godly    gudgeons :    where 's    the 

deedes, 
The  perfect  nobleman  ? 

Bas.  O,  good  my  lord  — 

Fin.  Away,  away,  ere  I  would  flatter  so,  80 

I  would  eate  rushes  like  Lord  Medici. 

Bas.  Well,  wel,  my  lord,  would  there  were 
more  such  princes  ! 

Fin.  Alas,  twere   pitty,  sir ;   they  would   be 
guild 
Out  of  their  very  skinnes. 

Bas.  Why,  how  are  you,  my  lord  ? 

Fin.   Who,  I  ?    I  care  not  :  85 

If  I  be  guild  where  I  professe  plaine  love, 
T'will  be  their  faults,  you  know. 

Bas.  O  t'were  their  shames. 

Fin.  Well,  take  my  jewell,  you  shall  not  be 
strange  ; 
I  love  not  manie  words. 

Bas.  My  lord,  I  thanke  you ; 

I  am  of  few  words  too. 

Fin.  Tis  friendlie  said ;  90 

You    prove  your  selfe   a    friend,  and  I   would 

have  you 
Advance  your  thoughts,  and  lay  about  for  state 

78  godly,  so  Qq.    Query  ?  goodly. 

89-90    /  loiie  .   .    .  said.     Qq  print   as    three    lines,    thus  : 
/  lo-ve  .  .  .  "words  |  My  .  .  .  too.  |   Tis   .    .    .   said.   | 


Scene  11]     XE^t  (Qentltxtim  Wis\)tt  195 

Worthy  your  vertues  :  be  the  mineon 

Of  some  great  king  or  duke  :   theres  Medici 

The  minion  of  my  father  —  O  the  Father  !  95 

What  difference  is  there  ?    But  I  cannot  flatter; 

A  word  to  wise  men  ! 

Bas.  I  perceive  your  lordship. 

Fin.  "  Your  lordship  ?  "    Talke  you  now  like 
a  friend  ? 
Is  this  plaine  kindnesse  ? 

Bas.  Is  it  not,  my  lord  ? 

Fin.  A  palpable  flattring  figure  for  men  com- 
mon :  100 
A  my  word  I  should  thinke,  if  twere  another. 
He  meant  to  gull  mee. 

Bas.  Why,  tis  but  your  due. 

Fin.   Tis    but    my    due,   if   youle   be   still   a 
stranger  ; 
But  as  I  wish  to  choose  you  for  my  friend. 
As  I  intend,  when  God  shall  call  my  father,       105 
To  doe  I  can  tell  what  —  but  let  that  passe,  — 
Thus  tis  not  fit ;  let  my  friend  be  familiar. 
Use  not  [my]  lordship,  nor  yet  call  me  lord. 
Nor  my  whole  name,  Vincentio  ;  but  Vince, 
As  they  call  Jacke  or  Will ;  tis  now  in  use        no 
Twixt  men  of  no  equallity  or  kindnesse. 

Bas.  I   shall   be   quickely   bold  enough,  my 
lord. 

108  my  lords/lip.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  me  Lordship. 


196  tirije  <f5mtletttan  tEfiflier      [actih. 

Vin.  Nay,  see   how  still   you   use    that   coy 
terme,  "  lord." 
What   argues   this    but    that    you    shunne    my 
friendship  ? 
Bas.  Nay,  pray,  say  not  so. 
Vin.  Who  should  not  say  so  ?  115 

Will  you  afford  me  now  no  name  at  all  ? 
Bas.  What  should  I  call  you  ? 
Vin.  Nay,  then  tis  no  matter. 

But  I  told  you,  "  Vince." 

Bas.  Why,  then,  my  sweete  Vince. 

Vin.  Whie,  so  then ;  and  yet  still  there  is  a  fault 
In  using  these  kind  words  without  kinde  deedes  :  120 
Pray  thee  imbrace  me  too. 

Bas.  Why,  then,  sweete  Vince. 

\^He  embraces  Vincentio."^ 
Vin.  Why,  now  I  thank  you;    sblood,  shall 
friends  be  strange  ? 
Where  there  is  plainenesse,  there  is  ever  truth  : 
And  I  will  still  be  plaine  since  I  am  true: 
Come,  let  us  lie  a  little;  I  am  wearie.  125 

Bas.  And  so  am  I,  I  sweare,  since  yesterday. 
[^They  lie  down  together. ~^ 
Vin.  You  may,  sir,  by  my  faith ;  and,  sirra, 
hark  thee, 
What  lordship  wouldst  thou  wish  to  have,  ifaith. 
When  my  old  father  dies  ? 

Bas.  Who,  I?  alas! 


Scene  n]     X!^\)t  (3mtitmm  Wii\)et  197 

Fin.   O,  not  you !    Well,  sir,  you  shall  have 

none;  '3° 

You  are  as  coy  a  peece  as  your  lords  daughter. 
Bas.   Who,  my  mistris  ? 

f^ln.  Indeede  !   Is  she  your  mistris  ? 

Bas.   I,  faith,  sweet  Vince,  since  she  was  three 

yeare  old. 
Fin.   And  are  not  wee  [two]   friends  ? 
Bas.  Who  doubts  of  that  ? 

Fin.   And  are  not  two  friends  one? 
Bas.  Even  man  and  wife.  13S 

Fin.  Then   what  to  you   she  is,  to   me  she 

should  be. 
Bas.  Why,  Vince,  thou  wouldst  not  have  her? 
Fin.  O,  not  I ! 

I  do  not  fancie  anything  like  you. 
Bas.  Nay,  but  I  pray  thee  tell  me. 
Fin.   You  do  not  meane  to  marry  her  your 

self  ?  140 

Bas.   Not  I,  by  heaven  ! 
Fin.  Take  heede  now,  do  not  gull  me. 

Bas.   No,  by  that  candle  ! 
Fin.  Then  will  I  be  plaine. 

Thinkeyou  she  dotes  not  too  much  on  my  father  ? 
Bas.   O  yes,  no  doubt  on  't. 
Fin.  Nay,  I  pray  you  speake. 

134  tivo.  Emend.  S.    Qq,  too. 

137-38    0  .   .   .you.     Qq  print  this  speech  as  one  line. 


198  tE^l)e  <5entlrman  tlUsilier      [actih. 

Bas.   You  seely  man,  you  !   she  cannot  abide 
him.  HS 

Vtn.   Why,  sweete  friend,  pardon  me ;  alas, 
I  knew  not. 

Bas.  But  I  doe  note  you  are  in  some  things 
simple. 
And  wrong  your  selfe  too  much. 

Vin.  Thanke  you,  good  friend, 

For  your  playne  dealing,  I  do  meane,  so  well. 

Bas.   But  who  saw  ever  summer  mixt  with 

winter?  150 

There  must  be  equall  yeares  where  firme  love  is. 
Could  we  two  love  so  well  so  soddainely. 
Were  we  not  some  thing  equaller  in  yeares 
Then  he  and  shee  are  ? 

Vin.  I  cry  ye  mercy,  sir, 

I  know  we  could  not;  but  yet  be  not  too  bitter,  155 
Considering  love  is  fearefull.  And,  sweete  friend, 
I  have  a  letter  t'  intreate  her  kindnesse. 
Which  if  you  would  convay  — 

Bas.  I,  if  I  would,  sir! 

Vin.  Why,  fayth,  deare  friend,  I  would  not 
die  requitelesse. 

Bas.   Would  you  not  so,  sir?  160 

By  heaven  !  a  little  thing  would  make  me  boxe  you ; 
"Which  if  you  would  convaie"  !  Why  not,  I  pray, 
"Which  (friend)  thou  shalt  convaie"  ? 

Vin.  Which,  friend,  you  shall  then. 

154-155    I  cry   ,    .    ,    Utter.     One  line  in  Qq. 


Scene  II.]         ^\)t  ^tntittmn  MSif)^  199 

Bas.   Well,  friend,  and  I  will  then. 

Fin.  And  use  some  kinde  perswasive  wordes 

for  me?  '^5 

Bas.  The  best,  I  sweare,  that  my  poore  toung 

can  forge. 
Fin.  I,  wel  said,  "  poore  toung  "  !   O,  tis  rich 
in  meekenesse  ; 
You  are  not  knowne  to  speake  well  ?    You  have 

wonne 
Direction  of  the  Earle  and  all  his  house, 
The  favour  of  his  daughter  and  all  dames  ^7° 

That  ever  I  sawe  come  within  your  sight. 
With  a  poore  tongue  ?    A  plague  a  your  sweete 
lippes  ! 
Bas.  Well,  we  will  doe  our  best  :  and,  faith, 
my  Vince, 
She  shall  have  an  unweldie  and  dull  soule. 
If    she    be    nothing    moov'd    with    my    poore 

tongue —  I7S 

Call  it  no  better,  be  it  what  it  will. 

Fin.  Well  said,  ifaith.    Nowif  I  doenotthinke 
Tis  possible,  besides  her  bare  receipt 
Of  that  my  letter,  with  thy  friendly  tongue 
To  get  an  answere  of  it,  never  trust  me.  i8o 

Bas.  "  An  answer,  "  man  ?  Sbloud,  make  no 

doubt  of  that. 
Fin.  By  heaven  I  thinke  so  ;  now  a  plague 
of  Nature, 
That  she  gives  all  to  some,  and  none  to  others ! 


200  ^t)e  Gentleman  Mst^tt      [act  m. 

Bas.    [_risingy  aside^ .    How  I  endeare  him  to 
me  !  —  Come,  Vince,  rise  ; 
Next  time  I  see  her  I  will  give  her  this  :  185 

Which  when  she  sees,  sheele  thinke  it  wondrous 

strange 
Love  should  goe  by  descent  and  make  the  sonne 
Follow  the  father  in  his  amorous  steppes. 

Fin.  Shee  needes  must  thinke  it  strange,  that 
never  yet  saw 
I  durst  speake  to  her,  or  had  scarce  hir  sight.      19° 
Bas.  Well  Vince,  I  sweare  thou  shalt  both 

see  and  kisse  her. 
Vin.  Sweares  my  deere  friend  ?    By  what  ? 
Bas.  Even  by  our  friendship. 

Vin.   O  sacred  oath  !  which  how  long  will  you 

keepe  ? 
Bas.   While  there  be  bees  in  Hybla,  or  white 
swannes 
In  bright  Meander;  while  the  banks  of  Po  19s 

Shall  beare  brave  lillies  ;  or  Italian  dames 
Be  called  the  bone  robes  of  the  world. 

Fin.   'Tis  elegantly  said  :   and  when  I  faile. 
Let  there  be  found  in  Hybla  hives  no  bees ; 
Let   no  swannes  swimme  in    bright    Meander 

streame,  *°o 

Nor  lillies  spring  upon  the  banks  of  Po, 
Nor  let  one  fat  Italian  dame  be  found, 
But  leaneand  brawne-falne;  I,  and  scarsly  sound. 


Scene  II.]         XH^^C  (&mtitmm  Wi&\)tt  201 

Bas.   It  is  enough,  but  lets  imbrace  with  all. 

rin.  With  all  my  hart. 

Bas.  So  now  farewell,  sweet  Vince.aos 

Exit  ^Bassio/o']. 
Fin.  Farewell,  my  worthie  friend.    I  thinke  I 
have  him. 

\_Re-'\enter  Bassiolo. 
Bas.    [aside^ .  I  had  forgot  the  parting  phrase 
he  taught  me.  — 
I  commend  me  t'ee,  sir. 

Exit  [Bassioh'^  instant^er^. 
Vin.  At  your  wisht  service,  sir. 

O  fine  friend,  he  had  forgot  the  phrase  : 
How  serious  apish  soules  are  in  vaine  forme  !     210 
Well,  he  is  mine,  and  he,  being  trusted  most 
With  my  deare  love,  may  often  worke  our  meet- 
ing, 
And,  being  thus  ingagde,  dare  not  reveale. 

Enter  Pogio  in  haste,  Strozza  following. 

Pogio.   Horse,  horse,  horse,  my  lord,  horse  ! 
Your  father  is  going  a  hunting.  215 

Vin.  "  My  lord  horse  ?  "  You  asse,  you  ;  d'ee 
call  my  lord  horse  ? 

Strozza.  Nay,  he  speakes  huddles  still ;  lets 
slit  his  tongue. 

Pog.  Nay,  good  unkle,    now,   sbloud,    what  220 
captious  marchants  you  be  ;  so  the  Duke  tooke 

Exit  Bassiolo.    Qq  place  this  direction  after  1.  204. 


202  ^tie  Gentleman  Msi\)tt      [act  m. 

me  up  even  now,  my  lord  unckle  heere,  and  my 
old  Lord  Lasso.  By  heaven  !  y'  are  all  too  witty 
for  me;  I  am  the  veriest  foole  on  you  all,  He  be 
sworne.  225 

Fin.  Therein  thou  art  worth  us  all,  for  thou 
knowst  thy  selfe. 

Stro.   But  your  wisedom  was  in  a  pretty  taking 
last  night ;   was  it  not,  I  pray  ? 

Pog.  O,  for  taking  my  drink  a  little?  Ifaith,23o 
my  lord,  for  that  you  shall  the  best  sport 
presently  with  Madam  Corteza  that  ever  was  ; 
I  have  made  her  so  drunke  that  she  does  nothing 
but  kisse  my  Lord  Medice.  See,  shee  comes 
riding  the  Duke;  shees  passing  well  mounted, 235 
beleeve  it. 

Enter  Alphonso,  Corteza  \leaning  on  the  Duke'] , 
Cynanche,  ^Margaret,]  Bassiolo  first,  two  wo- 
men attendants,  and  bunts-men.  Lasso. 

Alphonso.  Good  wench,  forbeare. 

Corte'z.a.  My  lord,  you  must  put  forth  your 
selfe  among  ladies;  I  warrant  you  have  much  in 
you,  if  you  would  shew  it;  see,  a  cheeke  a 240 
twentie,  the  bodie  of  a  George,  a  good  legge 
still,  still  a  good  calfe,  and  not  [flabby]  nor 
hanging,  I  warrant  you;  a  brawne  of  a  thumb 
here,  and  t'were  a  puUd  partridge.    Neece  Meg, 

women  attendants.      Malone  and  I  Q  in  B.  M.    read,  attendant } 
Dyce  and  I  copy  in  B.  M.  correctly,  attendants, 
242  flabby.      Emend.  P.    Qq,  slabby. 


Scene  ii]     ^\)t  (SeHtlemait  Wi6l)tr  203 

thou   shalt  have   the  sweetest  bedfellow  on  him24S 
that  ever   call'd  ladie  husband  ;    trie  him,  you 
shamefac'd  bable  you,  trie  him. 

Margaret.   Good  Madame,  be  rulde. 

Cor.   What  a  nice  thing  it  is !   My  lord,  you 
must  set  foorth  this  gere,  and  kisse  her;   y faith, 25° 
you   must  ;    get   you    togither   and   be  naughts 
awhile,  get  you  together. 

Jlp.  Now    what   a   merrie,  harmlesse   dame 
it  is  ! 

Cor.  My  Lord  Medice,  you  are  a  right  noble  25  5 
man    &    wil    do    a    woman   right    in   a   wrong 
matter,  and  neede  be  ;  pray,  do   you    give  the 
Duke  ensample  upon  me ;  you  come  a  wooing 
to  me  now  ;   I  accept  it. 

Lasso.  What  meane  you,  sister  ?  260 

Cor.   Pray,  my  lord,  away ;   consider  me  as  I 
am,  a  woman. 

Pog.   \aside'^ .  Lord,   how  I  have  whittld  her  ! 

Cor.  You  come  a  wooing  to  me  now;  pray 
thee,  Duke,  marke  my  Lord  Medice;  and  do 265 
you  marke  me,  virgin ;  stand  you  aside,  my 
lord  [s]  all,  and  you,  give  place.  Now  my  Lord 
Medice,  put  case  I  be  strange  a  little,  yet  you 
like  a  man  put  me  to  it.  Come  kisse  me,  my 
lord,  be  not  ashamde.  27° 

266—267  my  lords  all,  and  you,  giiie.      Emend,  ed.      Qq,   my 
Lord,  all,  and  you  i  gi-ve.      S,  my  lord,  and  all  you,  give. 


204  nrije  Gentleman  Wis\)tt       [act  m. 

Medice.  Not  I,  Madame,  I  come  not  a  woo- 
ing to  you. 

Cor.  Tis  no  matter,  my  lord,  make  as  though 
you  did,  and  come  kisse  me  ;  I  won't  be  strange 
a  whit.  275 

Las.  Fie,  sister,  y'  are  too  blame ;  pray,  will 
you  goe  to  your  chamber. 

Cor.  Why,  harke  you,  brother. 

Las.  Whats  the  matter  ? 

Cor.   Dee  thinke  I  am  drunke  .?  280 

Las.  I  thinke  so,  truly. 

Cor.  But  are  you  sure  I  am  drunke  ? 

Las.   Else  I  would  not  thinke  so. 

Cor.   But  I  would  be  glad  to  be  sure  on  't. 

Las.   I  assure  you  then.  285 

Cor.  Why,  then,  say  nothing,  &  He  begone. 
God  bwy.  Lord  Duke,  He  come  againe  anone. 

Exit  [Corteza]. 

Las.  I  hope  your  Grace  will  pardon  her,  my 
Liege, 
For  tis  most  strange  ;  shees  as  discreete  a  dame 
As  any  in  these  countries,  and  as  sober,  290 

But  for  this  onely  humour  of  the  cup. 

J/p.   Tis  good,  my  lord,  sometimes. 
Come,  to  our  hunting ;  now  tis  time,  I  thinke. 

Omnes.  The  verie  best  time  of  the  day,  my  lord. 

286-287  ff^hy,  then  .  .  .  anone.  Qq  arrange  in  two  lines, 
thus:   fVhy  then  .    .    .    Duie,  \    I/e   .    .    ,  anone. 


Scene  ii]     tETlje  &mtltmm  Wi6\)tv         205 

Jlp.  Then,  my  lord,  I  will  take  my  leave  till 
night,  29s 

Reserving  thanks  for  all  my  entertainment 
Till  I  returne  ;   in  meane  time,  lovely  dame. 
Remember  the  high  state  you  last  pre-  f^inWetitio] 
sented,  ^  Si[roz. 

And  thinke  it  was  not  a  mere  festivall  ^f^  ^T/  ""^ 

this  ivhtle 
shew,  talked  togither 

But  an  essentiall  type  of  that  you  are  afrettie-way. 
In  full  consent  of  all  my  faculties. 
And  harke  you,  good  my  lord, — 

\He  whispers  to  Lasso.] 
Vin.  \aside  to  Strozza  and  Cynanche^  .  See 

now,  they  whisper 
Some  private  order,  (I  dare  lay  my  life) 
For  a  forc'd  marriage  t'wixt  my  love  and  father ; 
I  therefore  must  make  sure;  and,  noble  friends, 305 
He  leave  you  all  when  I  have  brought  you  forth. 
And  seene  you  in  the  chase  ;  meane-while  observe 
In  all  the  time  this  solemne  hunting  lasts 
My  father  and  his  minion,  Medice, 
And  note  if  you  can  gather  any  signe  3'° 

That  they  have  mist  me,  and  suspect  my  being; 
If  which  fall  out,  send  home  my  page  Medke-whis- 
before.  P^'''  '^''''^ 

Stro.   I  will  not  faile,  my  lord.  Hu}tma„  all 

Med.  Now  take  thy  time,  this  luhUe. 

Medice  tvhispen  .    .    .   zuhile.   Qq  print  this  as  two  lines  in  the 
margin  opposite  1.  313. 


2o6  xi^\)t  Gentleman  Ma^^tt      [act  m. 

[/J/]  Huntsman.   I  warrant  you,  my  lord,  he 

shall  not  scape  me. 
JIp.  Now,  my  deere  mistresse,  till  our  sports 
intended  31S 

End  with  my  absence,  I  will  take  my  leave. 
Las.   Bassiolo,  attend  you  on  my  daughter. 

Exeufit  [Alphonso,  Lasso,  Medice,  Strozza, 
Huntsmen,  and  attendants^. 

Bas.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Vin.  \aside~\.   Now  will   the    sport   beginne  ; 

I  think  my  love 
Will  handle  him  as  well  as  I  have  doone.  320 

Exit  [Fincentio], 
Cynanche.   Madam,  I  take  my  leave  and  hum- 

blie  thanke  you. 
Mar.   Welcome,  good  madam  ;    mayds  wait 

on  my  lady.  Exit  \_Cynanche']. 

Bas.  So,  mistris,  this  is  fit. 
Mar.  "  Fit,"  sir,  why  so  ? 

Bas.   Why  so  ?   I  have  most  fortunate  newes 

for  you 
Mar.  For  me,  sir?  I  beseech  you  what  are  they?  3^5 
Bas.   Merit  and  fortune,  for  you  both  agree  ; 
Merit  what  you  have,  and  have  what  you  merit. 
Mar.   Lord,  with  what  rhetorike  you  prepare 

your  newes  ! 
Bas.  I    need    not ;    for  the  plaine  contents 

they  beare. 


Scene  ii]     ^^0  ^entlemau  tH0l)er  207 

Uttred  in  any  words,  deserve  their  welcome,    3  3° 
And  yet  I  hope  the  words  will  serve  the  turne. 
^He  offers  Margaret  the  letter.'^ 
Mar.   What,  in  a  letter  ? 
Bas.  Why  not  ? 

Mar.  Whence  is  it  ? 

Bas.  From  one  that  will  not  shame  it  with 
his  name  ; 
And  that  is  Lord  Vincentio. 

Mar.  King  of  Heaven  ! 

Is  the  man  madde? 

Bas.  "  Mad,"  madam !   why?     335 

Mar.   O  heaven  !   I  muse  a  man  of  your  im- 
portance 
Will  offer  to  bring  me  a  letter  thus. 

Bas.   Why,  why,  good  mistresse,  are  you  hurt 
in  that  ? 
Your  answer  may  be  what  you  will  your  selfe. 
Mar.   I,  but  you  should  not  doe  it :   Gods  my 
life !  340 

You  shall  answer  it. 

Bas.  Nay,  you  must  answer  it. 

Mar.   I  answer  it !   Are  you  the  man  I  trusted, 
And  will  betray  me  to  a  stranger  thus  ? 

Bas.  Thats  nothing,  damej  all   friends  were 

strangers  first. 
Mar.  Now  was  there  ever  woman  overseene  so  345 
In  a  wise  mans  discretion  ? 


2o8  tE^ije  Gentleman  Wis\)tt      [act  m. 

Bas.  Your  braine  is  shallow ;  come,  receive 

this  letter. 
Mar.   How  dare  you  say  so,  when  you  know 
so  well 
How  much  I  am  engaged  to  the  Duke  ? 

Bas.  The  Duke  ?    A  proper  match  !  a  grave 
olde  gentman,  350 

Haz  beard  at  will,  and  would,  in  my  conceyt. 
Make  a  most  excellent  patterne,  for  a  potter. 
To  have  his  picture  stampt  on  a  jugge, 
To  keepe  ale-knights  in  memorie  of  sobrietie. 
Heere,  gentle  madam,  take  it. 

Mar.  "Take  it,"  sir? 355 

Am  I  [a]  common  taker  of  love  letters  ? 

Bas.  "  Common  ?  "  Why,  when  receiv'd  you 

one  before  ? 
Mar.   Come,  tis   no  matter ;   I   had  thought 
your  care 
Of  my  bestowing  would  not  tempt  me  thus 
To  one  I  know  not ;   but  it  is  because  360 

You  know  I  dote  so  much  on  your  direction. 
Bas.   On  my  direction  ? 

Mar.  No,  sir,  not  on  yours. 

Bas.    Well,  mistris,  if  you  will  take  my  advice 
At  any  time,  then  take  this  letter  now. 

Mar.  Tis  strange  ;  I  woonder  the  coy  gentle- 
man, 365 

353  ^  J"iS'-    S,  a  stone  jug.    Cf.  Act  iv,  Sc.  iv,  1.  120. 
356   I  a  common.  Emend.  S.    Qq,  I  common. 


Scene  U]        tll.\)t  ^mtltttim  Wi&\}tt  209 

That  seeing  mee  so  oft  would  never  speake, 
Is  on  the  sodaine  so  far  wrapt  to  write. 

Bas.   It  shewd  his  judgement  that  he  would 
not  speake, 
Knowing  with  what  a  strict  and  jealous  eie 
He  should  be  noted  ;  holde,  if  you  loveyourselfe  ;  37° 
Now  will  you  take  this  letter  ?   pray  be  rulde. 
[//if  puts  the  letter  into  her  hands.  ] 
Mar.   Come,  you  have  such  another  plaguie 
toung; 
And  yet,  yfaith,  I  will  not.    {She  drops  the  letter. '\ 

Bas.  Lord  of  Heaven  ! 

What,  did  it  burne  your  hands  ?  holde,  hold,  I  pray, 
And  let  the  words  within  it  fire  your  heart.  375 

\_He gives  her  the  letter again.'\ 
Mar.  I  woonder  how  the  devill  he  found  you 
out 
To  be  his  spokesman, —  O  the   Duke  would 

thanke  you 
If  he  knew  how  you  urgde  me  for  his  sonne. 

\_She  reads  the  letter^ 
Bas.  [aside'] .   "  The  Duke ! "  I  have  fretted  her 
Even  to  the  liver,  and  had  much  adoe  380 

To  make  her  take  it,  but  I  knew  t'was  sure  ; 
For  he  that  cannot  turne  and  winde  a  woman 
Like  silke  about  his  finger  is  no  man. 
He  make  her  answer  't  too. 

Mar.  O  here  's  good  stuJfFe  ! 


2IO  t!^\)t  (3mtltmun  Wis\)tt      [Acxm. 

Hold,  pray  take  it  for  your  paines  to  bring  it.     385 
[_Sbe  returns  him  the  letter. "^ 
Bas.   Ladie,  you  erre  in  my  reward  a  little, 
Which  must  be  a  kind  answere  to  this  letter. 
Mar.    Nay,   then,   yfaith,    t'were    best    you 
brought  a  priest. 
And  then  your  client,  and  then  keepe  the  doore. 
Gods  me  !    I  never  knew  so  rude  a  man.  39° 

Bas.  Wei,  you  shall  answer ;  He  fetch  pen 
and  paper.  Exit  [Bassio/o]. 

Mar.   Poore  usher,  how  wert  thou  wrought  to 
this  brake  ? 
Men  worke  on  one  another  for  we  women. 
Nay,  each  man  on  himselfe  ;  and  all  in  one 
Say  :  "  No  man  is  content  that  lies  alone."         395 
Here  comes  our  gulled  squire. 

\Re-enter  Bassiok.'^ 
Bas.  Here,  mistresse,  write. 

Mar.   What  should  I  write  ? 
Bas.  An  answer  to  this  letter. 

Mar.   Why,  sir,  I  see  no  cause  of  answer  in  it, 
But  if  you  needs  will  shew  how  much  you  rule 

me. 
Sit  downe  and  answer  it  as  you   please   your 

selfe ;  4°° 

Here  is  your  paper,  lay  it  faire  afore  you. 
Bas.  Lady,  content ;   He  be  your  secretorie. 
[//f  sits  down  to  write. "^ 


Scene  II.]         ^\)e  (QmtitmUn  WiS}^tt  211 

Mar.  [^aside"].   I    fit    him    in  this    taske;  he 
thinkes  his  penne 
The  shaft  of  Cupid  in  an  amorous  letter. 

Bas.   Is  heere  no  great  worth  of  your  answer, 
say  you  ?  405 

Beleeve  it,  tis  exceedingly  well  writ. 

Afar.  So  much  the  more  unfit  for  me  to  an- 
swere, 
And  therefore  let  your  stile  and  it  contend. 

Bas.  Well,  you  shall  see  I  will  not  be  farre  short, 
Although  (indeede)  I  cannot  write  so  well  410 

When  one  is  by,  as  when  I  am  alone. 

Mar.  O,  a  good  scribe  must  write,  though 
twenty  talke. 
And  he  talke  to  them  too. 

Bas.  Well,  you  shall  see.      ^He  writes.'] 

Mar.    \aside\.      A   proper  peece  of  scribes- 
ship,  theres  no  doubt ; 
Some  words  pickt  out  of  proclamations,  4^5 

Or  great  mens  speeches,  or  well-selling   pam- 
phlets : 
See  how  he  rubbes  his  temples :   I  beleeve 
His  muse  lies  in  the  backe-part  of  his  braine. 
Which,  thicke  and  grosse,  is  hard  to  be  brought 

forward.  — 
What  ?   is  it  loath  to  come  ? 

Bas.  No,  not  a  whit :    420 

Pray  hold  your  peace  a  little. 


212  X!^\)t  (S)tnt\trmn  Wi$\)tt      [actih. 

Mar.  [aside].   He  sweates  with  bringing  on 
his  heavie  stile ; 
He  pHe  him  still,  till  he  sweate  all  his  wit  out.  — 
What,  man,  not  yet  ? 

Bas.  Swoons,  yowle  not  extort  it  from  a  man !  42s 
How  do  you  like  the  word,  "  endeare  "  ? 

Mar.   O,  fie  upon  't ! 

Bas.  Nay,  then  I  see  your  judgement :  what 
say  you  to  "  condole  "  ? 

Mar.   Worse  and  worse.  43° 

Bas.  O  brave !  I  should  make  a  sweete 
answer,  if  I  should  use  no  words  but  of  your 
admittance. 

Mar.   Well,  sir,  write  what  you  please. 

Bas.   Is  "  modell  "  a  good  word  with  you  ?      435 

Mar.  Put  them  togither,  I  pray. 

Bas.   So  I  will,  I  warrant  you.       [He  writes.] 

Mar.  [aside].  See,  see,  see,  now  it  comes 
powring  downe. 

Bas.  I  hope  youle  take  no  exceptions  to  "  be- 44° 
leeve  it." 

Mar.   Out  upon 't !   that  phrase  is  so  runne 
out  of  breath  in  trifles  that  we  shall  have  no 
beleefe  at  all  in  earnest  shortly.     "  Beleeve  it, 
tis  a  prettie  feather  "  ;   "  Beleeve   it,  a  daintie445 
rush  " ;  "  Beleeve  it,  an  excellent  cocks-combe." 

Bas.  So,  so,  so,  your  exceptions  sort  very 
collaterally. 


Scene  II.]         ^\)t  <3tntltmm  Wi&\)tt  21 3 

Mar.  "  Collaterally  "  ?  Theres  a  fine  word 
now ;   wrest  in  that  if  you  can  by  any  meanes.  45° 

Bas.  I  thought  she  would  like  the  very  worst 
of  them  all !  How  thinlce  you  ?  Do  not  I  write, 
and  heare,  and  talke,  too,  now  ? 

Afar.  By  my  soule,  if  you  can  tell  what  you 
write  now,  you  write  verie  readily.  4SS 

Bas.  That  you  shall  see  straight. 
Alar.   But  do  you  not  write  that  you  speake 
now  ? 

Bas.  O  yes,  doe  you  not  see  how  I  write  it  ? 
I  can  not  write  when  any  bodie  is  by  me,  I !      460 

Afar.  Gods  my  life  !  stay  man  ;  youle  make 
it  too  long. 

Bas.  Nay,  if  I  can  not  tell  what  belongs  to 
the  length  of  a  ladies  device,  yfaith  ! 

Afar.  But  I  will  not  have  it  so  long.  4.65 

Bas.   If  I  can  not  fit  you  ? 

Afar.  O  me,  how  it   comes  upon  him  !   pre 

thee  be  short. 
Bas.   Wei,  now  I  have  done,  &   now  I   wil 
reade  it : 
^Reads.'\    "  Your  lordships  motive  accomodat- 
ing my  thoughts  with  the  very  model  of47o 
my  hearts  mature  consideration,  it  shall 
not  be  out  of  my  element  to  negotiate 
with  you  in  this  amorous  duello;  wherein 
I  will  condole  with  you  that  our  project 
cannot  be  so   collaterally  made  as  our475 


214  X!^\)t  <S>mtitxmn  Mai^tt      [actiu. 

endeared  hearts  may  verie  well  seeme  to 
insinuate." 

Mar.   No  more,  no  more  ;  fie  upon  this  ! 

Bas.  "  Fie  upon  this  "  ?    Hees  accurst  that  haz 
to  doe  with  these  unsound  women  of  judgement :  480 
if  this  be  not  good,  yfaith  ! 

Afar.  But  tis  so  good,  t'will  not  be  thought 
to  come  from  a  womans  braine. 

Bas.  Thats  another  matter. 

Mar.   Come,  I  will  write  my  selfe.  485 

^Sbe  sits  down  to  write. "^ 

Bas.  A  Gods  name,  lady  !  and  yet  I  will  not 
loose  this,  I  warrant  you  ;  \_fold'ing  up  the  letter.'^ 
I  know  for  what  ladie  this  will  serve  as  fit.  Now 
we  shall  have  a  sweete  peece  of  inditement. 

Mar.   How  spell  you  "  foolish  "  ?  490 

Bas.  F,  00,  1,  i,  sh.  ^Jside.'j  She  will  pre- 
sume t'  endite  that  cannot  spel. 

Mar.   How  spell  you  "  usher  "  ? 

Bas.  Sblood,  you  put  not  in  those  words  to- 
gither,  do  you  ?  495 

Mar.  No,  not  togither. 

Bas.  What  is  betwixt,  I  pray  ? 

Mar.  "  Asse  the." 

Bas.  "  Asse  the  "  ?    Betwixt  "  foolish,"  and 
"usher"!    Gods    my  life,   "foolish    asse    the 500 
Usher"! 

Mar.  Nay  then,  you  are  so  jealous  of  your 
wit  !    Now  reade  all  I  have  written,  I  pray. 


Scene  II.]     X!^\)t  &tnt\tmm  ^nW  215 

Bas.  [reads'] .    "  I  am   not  so  foolish  as  the 
Usher  would  make  me,"  —  O,  "so  foolish  asS^S 
the  Usher  would  make  me  "  ?    Wherein  would 
I  make  you  foolish  ? 

Mar.  Why,  sir,  in  willing  me  to  beleeve  he 
lov'd  me  so  wel,  being  so  meere  a  stranger. 

Bas.   O,  is  't  so  ?    You   may  say  so,  indeed.   5'° 

Mar.  Crie  mercie,  sir,  and  I  will  write  so 
too.  [She  begins  to  write^  but  stops.]  And  yet 
my  hand  is  so  vile.  Pray  thee,  sit  thee  downe 
and  write  as  I  bid  thee. 

Bas.   With  all  my  heart,  lady.    What  shall  1 515 
write  now  ? 

Mar.  You  shall  write  this,  sir : 

I  am  not  so  foolish  to  thinke  you  love  me, 
being  so  meere  a  stranger  — 

Bas.   [writing] .  "  So  meere  a  stranger  "  !        S" 

Mar.   And  yet  I  know  love  works  strangely  — 

Bas.  "  Love  workes  strangely  —  " 

Mar.  And  therefore  take  heed  by  whom  you 
speake  for  love  — 

Bas.  "  Speake  for  love  —  "  5^5 

Mar.  For  he  may  speake  for  himselfe. 

Bas.  "  May  speake  for  himselfe  —  " 

Mar.   Not  that  I  desire  it  — 

Bas.  "  Desire  it  —  " 

Mar.   But  if  he  do,  you  may  speede,  I  con- 530 
fesse, 

512  too.    And  yet.  Emend,  ed.    Qq,  too,  &  yet. 


2i6  tE^lie  Gentleman  tEfifljer      [actih. 

Bas.  "  Speede,  I  confesse  —  " 

Mar.   But  let  that  passe,  I  do  not  love  to 
discourage  any  bodie  ;  — 

Bas.  "  Discourage  any  bodie  —  "  535 

Mar.   Do  you,  or  he,  picke  out  what  you 
can  ;  &  so  farewell. 

Bas.  "  And  so  fare  well."    Is  this  all  ? 

Mar.    I,   and    he   may  thanke    your   syrens 
tongue  that  it  is  so  much.  540 

Bas.    [looking  over  the  letter'] .    A  proper  let- 
ter, if  you  marke  it. 

Mar.  Well,  sir,  though  it  be  not   so  proper 
as  the  writer,  yet  tis  as   proper  as  the  inditer  ; 
everie  woman  cannot   be  a    gentleman   usher  ;  545 
they  that  cannot  go  before  must  come  behind. 

Bas.   Well,  ladie,  this  I  will  carrie  instantly  ; 
I  commend  me  tee,  ladie.  Exit  [Bassio/o']. 

Mar.   Pittifull  usher,  what  a  prettie  sleight 
Goes  to  the  working  up  of  everie  thing!  55° 

What  sweet  varietie  serves  a  womans  wit ! 
We  make  men  sue  to  us  for  that  we  wish. 
Poore  men,  hold  out  a  while,  and  do  not  sue. 
And  spite  of  custome  we  will  sue  to  you. 

Exit  [Margaret]  . 


Finis  Actus  Tertii. 


Actus  Quarti  Scjena  Prima. 
[^Before  the  House  of  Strozza.'\ 

Enter  Pogio  running  in,  and  knocking  at  Cynanches 
doore. 

Pogio.  O    God,    how  wearie    I    am !    Aunt, 
Madam  Cynanche,  aunt ! 

\_Enter  Cynanche. '\ 
Cynanche.   How  now? 

Pog.  O  God,  aunt  !  O  God,  aunt  !  O  God  ! 
Cyn.  What  bad  newes  brings  this  man  ?  Where 

is  my  lord  ? 
Pog.   O  aunt,  my  uncle  !    hees  shot. 
Cyn.  "  Shot !  "  ay  me  ! 

How  is  he  shot  ? 

Pog.  Why,  with  a  forked  shaft, 

As  he  was  hunting,  full  in  his  left  side. 

Cyn.   O  me  accurst,  where  is  hee  ?   Bring  me; 

where  ? 
Pog.   Comming  with  Doctor  Benivemus ; 
He  leave  you,  and  goe  tell  my  Lord  Vincentio. 

Exit  \_Pogio\ . 

Enter  Benivemus  zuith  others,  bringing  in  Strozza  with 
an  arrow  in  his  side. 
Cyn.  See  the  sad  sight ;   I  dare  not  yeeld  to 
griefe, 


21 8  tS^\)t  <3mt\tmm  Wisi^tx       [activ. 

But  force  faind  patience  to  recomfort  him. 
My  lord,  what  chance  is  this  ?    How  fares  your 
lordship  ? 
Strozza.  Wounded,  and  faint  with  anguish ; 

let  me  rest.  15 

Benivemus.  A  chaire. 

Cyn.  O  Doctor,  ist  a  deadly  hurt  ? 

Ben.  I  hope  not,   madam,   though    not  free 

from  danger. 
Cyn,  Why  plucke  you    not   the  arrow  from 

his  side  ? 
Ben.   We  cannot,  lady,  the  forckt  head  so  fast 
Stickes  in  the  bottome  of  his  sollide  ribbe.  20 

Stro.   No  meane  then.  Doctor,  rests  there  to 

educe  it  ? 
Ben.   This  onely,  my  good  lord,  to  give  your 
wound 
A  greater  orifice,  and  in  sunder  break 
The  pierced  ribbe,  which  being  so  near  the  mid- 

riffe. 
And  opening  to  the  region  of  the  heart,  25 

Will  be  exceeding  dangerous  to  your  life. 

Stro.   I  will  not  see  my  bosome  mangled  so. 
Nor  sternely  be  anatomizde  alive; 
He  rather  perish  with  it  sticking  still. 

Cyn.  O,  no ;    sweete    Doctor,  thinke    upon 

some  help.  3° 

Ben.   I  tolde  you  all  that  can  be  thought  in  arte, 


Scene  I]  XI^\)t  <&mt\tmnn  "(B&^tt  21  q 

Which  since  your  lordship  will  not  yeelde  to  use, 
Our  last  hope  rests  in  Natures  secret  aide, 
Whose  power  at  length  may  happily  expell  it. 
Stro.   Must   we    attend   at    Deaths   abhorred 

doore  35 

The  torturing  delaies  of  slavish  Nature  ? 
My  life  is  in  mine  owne  powers  to  dissolve  : 
And  why  not  then  the  paines  that  plague  my 

life  ? 
Rise,  Furies,  and  this  furie  of  my  bane 
Assaile  and  conquer :  what  men  madnesse  call     4° 
(That  hath  no  eye  to  sense,  but  frees  the  soule, 
Exempt  of  hope  and  feare,  with  instant  fate) 
Is  manliest  reason  ;  manliest  reason,  then. 
Resolve  and  rid  me  of  this  brutish  life. 
Hasten  the  cowardly  protracted  cure  45 

Of  all  diseases  :   King  of  phisitians.  Death, 
He  dig  thee  from  this  mine  of  miserie. 

Cyn.   O,  hold,  my  lord  ;  this  is  no  Christian 

part. 
Nor  yet  skarce  manly,  when  your  mankinde  foe. 
Imperious   Death,  shall  make  your  grones  his 

trumpets  5° 

To  summon  resignation  of  Lifes  fort. 
To  flie  without  resistance  ;  you  must  force 
A  countermine  of  fortitude,  more  deepe 
Than  this  poore  mine  of  paines,  to  blow  him  up. 
And  spight  of  him  live  victor,  though  subdu'd  :     ss 


220  Slje  Gentleman  Ziag^ier       [activ. 

Patience  in  torment  is  a  valure  more 

Than  ever  crownd  th'  Alcmenean  conquerour. 

Stro.   Rage  is  the  vent  of  torment ;   let  me  rise. 

Cyn.   Men  doe  but  crie  that  rage  in  miseries, 
And  scarcely  beaten  children  become  cries  :  60 

Paines  are  like  womens  clamors,  which  the  lesse 
They  find  mens  patience  stirred,  the  more  they 

cease. 
Of  this  tis  said,  afflictions  bring  to  God, 
Because  they  make  us  like  him,  drinking  up 
Joyes  that  deforme  us  vi^ith  the  lusts  of  sense,      65 
And  turne  our  generall  being  into  soule. 
Whose  actions,  simply  formed  and  applied. 
Draw  all  our  bodies  frailties  from  respect. 

Stro.   Away  with  this  unmedcinable  balme 
Of  worded  breath  ;  forbeare,  friends,  let  me  rest ;   7° 
I  sweare  I  will  be  bands  unto  my  selfe. 

Ben.  That  will  become   your  lordship   best 
indeed. 

Stro.   He  breake  away,  and  leape  into  the  sea, 
Or  from  some  turret  cast  me  hedlong  downe. 
To  shiver  this  fraile  carkasse  into  dust.  75 

Cyn.   O  my  deare  lord,  what  unlike  words  are 
these 
To  the  late  fruits  of  your  religious  noblesse  ? 

Stro.   Leave  me,  fond  woman. 

Cyn.  He  be  hewne  from  hence 

Before  I  leave  you  ;  helpe  me,  gentle  Doctor. 


Scene  II,]         ^l}t  i^mtltVlim  MUf^tt  221 

Ben.   Have  patience,  good  my  lord. 
Stro.  Then  leade  me  in,  80 

Cut  off  the  timber  of  this  cursed  shaft, 
And  let  the  fork'd  pile  canker  to  my  heart. 
Cyn.   Deare  lord,  resolve  on  humble  sufferance. 
Stro.   I  will  not  heare  thee,  woman  ;   be  con- 
tent. 
Cyn.   O  never  shall  my  counsailes  cease  to 
knocke  85 

At  thy  impatient  eares  till  they  flie  in 
And  salve  with  Christian  patience  pagan  sinne. 

Exeunt  \j)mnes'\. 

[SC^NA    SeCUNDA. 

A  Room  in  the  House  of  Lasso. "^ 

Enter  Vincentio  with  a  letter  in  his  hand,  [and]  Bassiolo. 

Bassiolo.  This  is  her  letter,  sir ;  you  now  shall 
see 
How  seely  a  thing  tis  in  respect  of  mine. 
And  what  a  simple  woman  she  haz  prov'd 
To  refuse  mine  for  hers ;  I  pray  looke  heere. 
Vincentio.   Soft,  sir,  I  know  not,  I  being  her 
sworn  servant,  5 

If  I  may  put  up  these  disgracefull  words. 
Given  of  my  mistris,  without  touch  of  honour. 
Bas.  "  Disgracefull  words  ! "  I  protest  I  speake 
not 


222  ^\)t  (3tntitmnn  Wisi\)tt       [activ. 

To  disgrace  her,  but  to  grace  my  selfe. 

Fin.   Nay  then,  sir,    if  it   be  to   grace   your 

selfe,  10 

I  am  content ;   but  otherwise,  you  know, 
I  was  to  take  exceptions  to  a  king. 

Bas.  Nay,  y'  are  ith  right  for  that ;  but  reade, 
I  pray  ; 
If  there  be  not  more  choice  words  in  that  letter 
Than  in  any  three  of  Guevaras  Go/den  Epistles^   15 
I  am  a  very  asse.    How  thinke  you,  Vince  ? 

Fin.   By  heaven,  no  lesse,  sir ;   it  is  the  best 
thing  —         He  rends  it  ^as  if  by  mistake'^ . 
Gods,  what  a  beast  am  I ' 

Bas.  It  is  no  matter, 

I  can  set  it  together  againe. 

Vin.   Pardon  me,  sir,  I  protest  I  was  ravisht :  20 
But  was  it  possible  she  should  preferre 
Hers  before  this  ? 

Bas.   O  sir,  she  cride  "  Fie  upon  this  "  ! 

Vin.   Well,  I  must  say  nothing ;  love  is  blind, 
you  know,  and  can  finde  no  fault  in  his  beloved.  25 

Bas.  Nay,  thats  most  certaine. 

Vin.   Gee  't  me  ;   He  have  this  letter. 

Bas.   No,  good  Vince,  tis  not  worth  it. 

Vin.   He  ha  't,  ifaith.     \_Taking  Bassiolo' s  letter i\ 

13—16   Nay  .    .    .    Vince.      Prose  in  Qq  and  in  S. 
20—22    Pardon    .    .    .    this.      Prose  in  Qq  and  in  S. 
23-32    0  sir   .    .    .    iivere.    These    lines  might  be  forced  into 
rough  metrical  form  ;  but  the  rhythm  seems  that  of  prose. 


Scene  II.]     ^\)t  ^cntltmnn  M&i^tt  223 

Heeres  enough  in  it  to  serve  for  my  letters  as   30 
long   as   I  live  ;   He  keepe   it  to  breede   on  as 
twere. 

But  I  much  wonder  you  could  make  her  write. 
Bas.  Indeede  there  were  some  words  belongd 

to  that. 
rin.   How  strong  an  influence  works  in  well- 
plac'd  words  !  35 

And  yet  there  must  be  a  prepared  love 
To  give  those  words  so  mighty  a  command, 
Or  twere  impossible  they  should  move  so  much  : 
And  will  you  tell  me  true  } 

Bas.  In  any  thing. 

Fin.   Does  not  this  lady  love  you  .?  4° 

Bas.  Love   me  ?    Why,   yes ;    I    thinke    she 

does  not  hate  me. 
Fin.  Nay,  but,  ifaith,  does  she  not  love  you 

dearely  ? 
Bas.  No,  I  protest. 

Fin.  Nor  have  you  never  kist  her  ? 

Bas.  Kist  her  !    Thats  nothing. 
Fin.  But  you  know  my  meaning : 

Have  you  not  beene,  as  one  would  say,  afore 

me  ?  45 

Bas.  Not  I,  I  sweare. 

Fin.  O,  y'  are  too  true  to  tell. 

Bas.  Nay,  be  my  troth,  she  haz,  I  must  con- 
fesse. 


224  tlT^e  (Sentlrman  ttt0l)er       [activ. 

Usde  me  with  good  respect  and  nobly  still, 
But  for  such  matters  — 

Vin.    [aside~\.  Verie  little  more 

Would  make  him  take   her   maidenhead   upon 

him. —  5° 

Well,  friend,  I  rest  yet  in  a  little  doubt. 
This  was  not  hers. 

\_Pointmg  to  Margaret'' s   letter. "^ 

Bas.  T'was,  by  that  light  that  shines ; 

And  He  goe  fetch  her  to  you  to  confirme  it 

Vin.   O  passing  friend  ! 

Bas.   But  when  she  comes,  in  any  case  be  bold,  ss 
And  come  upon  her  with  some  pleasing  thing, 
To   shew  y'  are  pleasde,  how  ever  she  behaves 

her : 
As,  for  example,  if  she  turne  her  backe. 
Use  you  that  action  you  would  doe  before, 
And  court  her  thus :  60 

"  Lady,  your  backe  part  is  as  faire  to  me 
As  is  your  fore  part." 

Vin.  T'will  be  most  pleasing. 

Bas.  I,  for  if  you  love 

One  part  above  another,  tis  a  signe 
You  love  not  all  alike ;  and  the  worst  part  65 

About  your  mistris  you  must  thinke  as  faire, 
As  sweete  and  daintie,  as  the  very  best, 

61-62  Lady   .    .    .  part.     Printed  as  prose  in  Qq,  continuously 
with  1.  60,  thus  :   And  court   .    .    .  part. 


Scene  II.]         ^\)t  i&tntitmm  Wi&\)tt  22 S 

So  much  for  so  much,  and  considering,  too. 
Each  several!  limbe  and  member  in  his  kinde. 
Fin.  As  a  man  should. 

Bas.  True  •,  will  you  thinke  of  this  ?   70 

Fin.   I  hope  I  shall. 

Bas.  But  if  she  chance  to  laugh, 

You  must  not  lose  your  countenance,  but  devise 
Some  speech  to  shew  you  pleasde,  even  being 
laugh'd  at. 
Fin.   I,  but  what  speech  ? 
Bas.  Gods  pretious,  man  !   do  something  of 
your  selfe  !  75 

But  He  devise  a  speech.  He  studies. 

Fin.  [aside].  Inspire  him.  Folly  ! 

Bas.   Or  tis  no  matter ;  be  but  bold  enough, 
And  laugh  when  she  laughs,  and  it  is  enough  : 
He  fetch  her  to  you.  Exit  [Bassiolo] . 

Fin.   Now  was  there  ever  such  a  demilance,     80 
To  beare  a  man  so  cleare  through  thicke  and 
thinne  ? 

[Re-]  enter  BasTiolo. 
Bas.  Or  harke  you,  sir,  if  she  should  steale  a 
laughter 
Under  her  fanne,  thus  you  may  say,  "  Sweete 

lady. 
If  you  will  laugh  and  lie  downe,  I  am  pleasde." 

70-71   As  .    .    .   laugh.     Qq  print    as    three   lines:   As  .    .    . 
should.   I   True  .    .    .   shall.  \  But   .    .   .   laugh.  \ 


226  ^1)0  (Smtlentan  t[a0l)er       [activ. 

Vin.  And  so  I  were,  by  heaven  ;  how  know 

you  that  ?  85 

Bas.  Slid,  man.  He  hit  your  very  thoughts  in 

these  things. 
Vin.  Fetch  her,  sweete  friend;   He  hit  your 

words,  I  warrant. 
Bas.   Be  bold  then,  Vince,  and  presse  her  to 
it  hard. 
A  shame-fac'd  man  is  of  all  women  barr'd. 

Exit  \_Bas5i0l0']. 
Vin.   How  easly  worthlesse  men  take  worth 

upon  them,  9° 

And  being  over  credulous  of  their  owne  worth, 
Doe  underprize  as  much  the  worth  of  others. 
The  foole  is  rich,  and  absurd  riches  thinks 
All  merit  is  rung  out  where  his  purse  chinks. 
[^Re-~\enter  Bassiolo,  and  Margaret. 
Bas.  My  lord,  with  much  intreaty  heeres  my 
lady.  95 

Nay,  maddam,  looke  not  backe :   why,  Vince,  I 
say  ! 
Margaret  [aside'].    "Vince".''    O  monstrous 

jeast ! 
Bas.  To  her,  for  shame  ! 

\_Js  Vincent  to  approaches,   Margaret  turns 
her  back  upon  him.~] 
Vin.  Lady,  your  backe  part  is  as  sweete  to  me 
as  all  your  fore  part. 


Scene  II.]         ^\)t  ^tntitmm  M&^tt  22y 

Bas.  [aside^.  He  miss'd  a  little:   he  said  herioo 
back  part  was  "  sweet  ",  when  he  should   have 
said  "  faire " ;  but  see,  she  laughs  most  fitly  to 
bring  in  the  tother. 
Vince,  to  her  againe ;  she  laughs. 

Vtn.  Laugh  you,  faire  dame  ? 

If  you  will  laugh  and  lie  downe,  I  am  pleasde.  105 
Mar.  What  villanous  stuffe  is  heere  ? 
Bas.  Sweete  mistris,  of  meere  grace  imbolden 
now 
The  kind  young  prince  heere ;  it  is  onely  love, 
Upon  my  protestation,  that  thus  daunts 
His  most  heroicke  spirit:  so  a  while  ''° 

He  leave  you  close  together ;  Vince,  I  say  — 

Exit  ^Bassio/o] . 
Mar.  O  horrible  hearing !  Does  he  call  you 

Vince  ? 
Vin.  O  I,  what  else  ?   And  I  made  him  im- 
brace  me, 
Knitting  a  most  familiar  league  of  friendship. 
Mar.   But  wherefore  did  you  court  me  so  ab- 
surdly ?  "S 
Vtn.  Gods  me,  he  taught  me  !  I  spake  out  of 

him. 
Mar.  O  fie  upon  't !  Could  you  for  pitty  make 
him 

104   Vince  .   .   .   laughs.    Qq  print  as  prose  like  the  foregoing 
lines  of  this  speech. 


228  t!rt)e  (Sentleman  Wie\)tt      [act  iv. 

Such  a  poore  creature  ?    Twas  abuse  enough 
To  make  him  take  on  him  such  sawcie  friend- 
ship ; 
And  yet  his  place  is  great ;  for  hees  not  onely    120 
My  fathers  usher,  but  the  worlds  beside, 
Because  he  goes  before  it  all  in  folly. 

Fin.   Well,  in  these  homely  wiles  must  our 
loves  maske. 
Since  power  denies  him  his  apparant  right. 
Alar.   But  is  there  no  meane  to  dissolve  that 

power,  1^5 

And  to  prevent  all  further  wrong  to  us, 
Which  it  may  worke  by  forcing  mariage  rites 
Betwixt  me  and  the  Duke  ? 

Fin.  No  meane  but  one. 

And  that  is  closely  to  be  maried  first. 
Which  I  perceive  not  how  we  can  performe  ;    13° 
For  at  my  fathers  comming  backe  from  hunting, 
I  feare  your  father  and  himselfe  resolve 
To  barre  my  interest  with  his  present  nuptialls. 
Alar.   That  shall  they  never  doe  ;  may  not  we 
now 
Our  contract  make,  and  marie  before  heaven    ?  135 
Are  not  the  lawes  of  God  and  Nature  more 
Than  formall  lawes  of  men  ?    Are  outward  rites 
More  vertuous  then  the  very  substance  is 
Of  holy  nuptialls  solemnizde  within  ? 

123   lo'ves,  so  Qq.    Query?  love. 


Scene  II.]     ^\)t  ^eutlematt  Wi&\)et         229 

Or  shall  lawes  made  to  curbe  the  common  world,  14° 
That  would  not  be  contain'd  in  forme  without 

them, 
Hurt  them  that  are  a  law  unto  themselves  ? 
My  princely  love,  tis  not  a  priest  shall  let  us  : 
But  since  th'  eternall  acts  of  our  pure  soules 
Knit  us  with  God,  the  soule  of  all  the  world,    14s 
He  shall  be  priest  to  us ;  and  with  such  rites 
As  we  can  heere  devise  we  will  expresse 
And  strongly  ratifie  our  hearts  true  vowes, 
Which  no  externall  violence  shall  dissolve. 
Fin.  This  is  our  onely  meane  t'  enjoy  each 

other:  ^5° 

And,  my  deare  life,  I  will  devise  a  forme 
To  execute  the  substance  of  our  mindes 
In  honor'd  nuptialls.    First,  then,  hide  your  face 
With  this  your  spotlesse  white  and  virgin  vaile  : 
Now  this  my  skarfe  He  knit  about  your  arme,     i5S 
As  you  shall  knit  this  other  end  on  mine. 
And  as  I  knit  it,  heere  I  vow  by  heaven. 
By  the  most  sweete  imaginarie  joyes 
Of  untride  nuptialls,  by  Loves  ushering  fire 
Fore-melting  beautie,  and  Loves  flame  it  selfe,    160 
As  this  is  soft  and  pliant  to  your  arme 
In  a  circumferent  flexure,  so  will  I 
Be  tender  of  your  welfare  and  your  will 
As  of  mine  owne,  as  of  my  life  and  soule, 
In  all  things  and  for  ever;  onelie  you  165 


230  tn^^e  ^rntleman  tKsflier       [act  iv. 

Shall  have  this  care  in  fulnesse,  onely  you 
Of  all  dames  shall  be  mine,  and  onely  you 
He  court,  commend,  and  joy  in,  till  I  die. 

Mar.  With  like  conceit  on  your  arme  this  I  tie. 
And  heere  in  sight  of  heaven,  by  it  I  svi^eare,     170 
By  my  love  to  you,  which  commands  my  life. 
By  the  deare  price  of  such  a  constant  husband 
As  you  have  vovi^ed  to  be,  and  by  the  joy 
I  shall  imbrace  by  all  meanes  to  requite  you. 
He  be  as  apt  to  governe  as  this  silke,  175 

As  private  as  my  face  is  to  this  vaile. 
And  as  farre  from  offence  as  this  from  black- 

nesse. 
I  will  be  courted  of  no  man  but  you, 
In  and  for  you  shall  be  my  joyes  and  woes  : 
If  you  be  sicke,  I  will  be  sicke,  though  well ;      180 
If  you  be  well,  I  will  be  well,  though  sicke  : 
Your  selfe  alone  my  compleat  world  shall  be. 
Even  from  this  houre  to  all  eternity. 

Vin.   It    is    inough,   and    binds   as   much    as 

marriage. 

\_Re-'\enter  Bassiolo. 
Bas.  He  see   in  what  plight  my  poore  lover 

stands.  185 

Gods  me  !  a  beckons  me  to  have  me  gone, 
It  seemes  hees  entred  into  some  good  vaine  : 
He    hence ;   Love   cureth    when    he   vents    his 

paine.  Exit  \_Bassiolo'^ . 


Scene  II.]         t!!^}^t  (SttXltitmm  M&\^tt  23 1 

Fin.  Now,  my  sweet  life,  we  both  remember 
well 
What  we  have  vow'd  shall  all  be  kept  entire       19° 
Maugre  our  fathers  wraths,  danger,  and  death  : 
And  to  confirme  this  shall  we  spend  our  breath  ? 
Be  well  advisde,  for  yet  your  choice  shall  be 
In  all  things,  as  before,  as  large  and  free. 

Mar.  What  I  have  vow'd,  He  keepe  even  past 
my  death.  '95 

Fin.  And  I  :  and  now  in  token  I  dissolve 
Youir  virgin  state,  I  take  this  snowie  vaile 
From  your  much  fairer  face,  and  claime  the  dues 
Of  sacred  nuptialls  :  and  now,  fairest  Heaven, 
As  thou  art  infinitely  raisde  from  earth,  ^°° 

DifFrent  and  opposite,  so  blesse  this  match, 
As  farre  remov'd  from  customes  popular  sects. 
And  as  unstaind  with  her  abhorr'd  respects. 
^Re-'\enier  Bassiok. 

Bas.  Mistris,   away;    Pogio   runnes   up   and 
downe. 
Calling  for  Lord  Vincentio  ;    come  away,  205 

For  hitherward  he  bends  his  clamorous  haste. 

Mar.   Remember,  love. 

Exit  Mar  [garet^  and  Bassiolo. 

Fin.  Or  else  forget  me  Heaven  ! 

Why  am  I  sought  for  by  this  Pogio  ? 
The  asse  is  great  with  child  of  some  ill  newes, 
His  mouth  is  never  fiU'd  with  other  sound.         210 


232  XB^t  ^tntltmun  Wi&\)tt       [activ. 

Enter  Pogio. 
Pogio.  Where  is  my  Lord  Vincentio  ?  Where 

is  my  lord  ? 
Vin.   Here  he  is,  asse;  what  an  exclaiming 

keep'st  thou  ! 
Pog.  Slood,  my  lord,  I  have  followed  you  up 
and  downe  like  a  Tantalus  pig,  till  I  have  worne 
out  my  hose  here  abouts.  He  be  sworne,  and  yet  215 
you  call  me  asse  still ;  but  I  can  tell  you  passing 
ill  newes,  my  lord. 

Vin.   I  know  that  well,  sir ;  thou  never  bringst 
other. 
Whats  your  newes  now,  I  pray  ? 

Pog.  O  Lord  !   my  lord  uncle  is  shot  in  the  220 
side  with  an  arrow. 

Vin.  Plagues  take  thy  tongue  !    Is  he  in  any 

danger  ? 
Pog.  O,  danger,  I ;  he   haz  lien   speechlesse 
this  two  houres,  and  talkes  so  idlely. 

Vin.  Accursed  newes  !    Where  is  he  ?   Bring 

me  to  him.  225 

Pog.  Yes,  do  you  lead,  and  He  guide  you  to 
him.  Exeunt  \_Fincentio  and  Pogio^. 

218-219   /.  .  .  pray.    As  prose  in  Qq. 


Scene  m]    tlTlje  (Sentlftttan  ta^lier  233 

[SC^NA    TeRTIA. 

A  Room  in  the  House  of  Strozza.'] 

Enter  Strozza  brought  in  a  chaire,  Cynanche,   with 
others. 

Cynanche.   How  fares  it  now  with  my  deare 
lord  and  husband  ? 

Strozza.   Come   neere   me,  wife ;  I   fare  the 
better  farre 
For  the  sweete  foode  of  thy  divine  advice. 
Let  no  man  value  at  a  little  price 
A  vertuous  womans  counsaile  ;  her  wing'd  spirit     s 
Is  featherd  oftentimes  with  heavenly  words, 
And  (like  her  beautie)  ravishing  and  pure ; 
The  weaker  bodie,  still  the  stronger  soule ; 
When  good  endevours  do  her  powers  applie. 
Her  love  drawes  neerest  mans  felicitie.  lo 

O  what  a  treasure  is  a  vertuous  wife. 
Discreet  and  loving !    Not  one  gift  on  earth 
Makes  a  mans  life  so  highly  bound  to  heaven  ; 
She  gives  him  double  forces,  to  endure 
And  to  enjoy,  by  being  one  with  him,  15 

Feeling  his  joies  and  griefes  with  equall  sence ; 
And,  like  the  twins  Hypocrates  reports. 
If  he  fetch  sighes,  she  drawes  her  breath  as  short : 

Cynanche,  'with  others.      Qq   read   Cynanche,   Benenemus,  ivith 
others.    But  Benivemus  does  not  enter  till  after  1.  85. 


234  ^1)t  ^mtitmrn  Wisii^tr      [activ. 

If  he  lament,  she  melts  her  selfe  in  teares : 

If  he  be  glad,  she  triumphs  :   if  he  stirre,  20 

She  moov's   his  way  :   in  all  things  his  sweete 

ape : 
And  is,  in  alterations  passing  strange, 
Himselfe  divinely  varied  without  change. 
Gold  is  right  pretious,  but  his  price  infects 
With  pride  and  avarice ;  Aucthority  lifts  25 

Hats  from  mens  heades,  and  bowes  the  strongest 

knees. 
Yet  cannot  bend  in  rule  the  weakest  hearts  ; 
Musicke   delights    but   one    sence,  nor    choice 

meats ; 
One  quickly  fades,  the  other  stirre  to  sinne ; 
But  a  true  wife  both  sence  and  soule  delights,      30 
And  mixeth  not  her  good  with  any  ill ; 
Her  vertues  (ruling  hearts)  all  powres  command; 
All  store  without  her  leaves  a  man  but  poore ; 
And  with  her,  povertie  is  exceeding  store  ; 
No  time  is  tedious  with  her ;    her  true  woorth      35 
Makes  a  true  husband  thinke  his  armes  enfold 
(With  her  alone)  a  compleate  worlde  of  gold. 
Cyn.   I  wish  (deare   love)  I  could   deserve  as 

much 
As  your  most  kinde  conceipt  hath  well  exprest : 
But  when  my  best  is  done,  I  see  you  wounded,  40 
And  neither  can  recure  nor  ease  your  pains. 
Stro.  Cynanche,thy  advise  hath  made  me  well; 


Scene  ni]    ^\)t  ^entlemau  M6\)tt         235 

My  free  submission  to  the  hand  of  Heaven 
Makes  it  redeeme  me  from  the  rage  of  paine. 
For  though  I  know  the  malice  of  my  wound        45 
Shootes    still  the  same   distemper  through  my 

vaines. 
Yet  the  judiciall  patience  I  embrace, 
(In  which  my  minde  spreads  her  impassive  powres 
Through    all    my   suffring    parts)  expels    their 

frailetie, 
And  rendering  up  their  whole  life  to  my  soule,    5° 
Leaves  me  nought  else  but  soule;  and  so,  like 

her, 
Free  from  the  passions  of  my  fuming  blood. 
Cyn.   Would  God  you  were  so;  and  that  too 

much  payne 
Were  not  the  reason  you  felt  sence  of  none. 
Stro.  Thinkst  thou  me  mad,  Cynanche  ?   for 

mad  men,  SS 

By  paynes  ungovernd,  have  no  sense  of  payne. 
But  I,  I  tell  you,  am  quite  contrary, 
Easde  with  well  governing  my  submitted  payne. 
Be    cheerd  then,  wife  ;  and  looke  not  for,  in 

mee. 
The  manners  of  a  common  wounded  man:  60 

Humilitie  hath  raisde  me  to  the  starres ; 
In  which  (as  in  a  sort  of  cristall  globes) 
I  sit  and  see  things  hidde  from  humane  sight. 
I,  even  the  very  accidents  to  come 


236  XE\)t  (Qmtltmnn  Wi&\)tt      [activ. 

Are  present   with  my   knowledge ;    the  seventh 

day  65 

The  arrow  head  will  fall  out  of  my  side. 
The  seaventh  day,  wife,  the  forked  head  will  out. 

Cyn.    Would   God  it   would,    my   lord,   and 
leave  you  wel  ! 

Stro.  Yes,  the  seventh   day,  I  am   assurd   it 
will : 
And  I  shall  live,  I  know    it ;   I  thanke  heaven,  70 
I  knowe  it  well ;  and  He  teach  my  phisition 
To  build  his  c[u]res  heereafter  upon  heaven 
More  then  on  earthly  medcines ;  for  I  knowe 
Many  things  showne  me  from  the  op'ned  skies 
That  passe  all  arts.     Now  my  phisition  75 

Is  comming  to  me,  he  makes  friendly  haste  j 
And  I  will  well  requite  his  care  of  mee. 

Cyn.   How  knowe  you  he  is  comming  ? 

Stro.  Passing  well ; 

And  that  my  deare  friend.  Lord  Vincentio, 
Will  presently  come  see  me  too ;   He  stay  80 

(My  good  phisition)  till  my  true  friend  come. 

Cyn.   \aside\.    Ay  me,  his  talke  is  idle,  and,  I 
feare. 
Foretells  his  reasonable  soule  now  leaves  him. 

Stro.   Bring   my  physition    in,  hee  's   at    the 
doore. 

72  cures.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  cares. 

78-79   Passing   .    .    .    Vincentio,      Qq  print  this  as  one  line. 


Scene  III]    XE'\)t  <3mt\tmm  Msi^tt  237 

Cyn.  Alas  theres  no  physition  ! 
Stro.  But  I  know  it ;  85 

See,  he  is  come. 

Enter  Benevemius. 
Benevemus.         How  fares  my  worthy  lord  ? 
Stro.   Good  Doctor,  I  endure  no  paine  at  all, 
And,  the  seaventh  day,  the  arrowes  head  will  out. 
Ben.  Why  should  it  fall  out  the  seventh  day, 

my  lord  ? 
Stro.  I  know  it ;  the  seventh  day  it  will  not 

faile.  90 

Ben.  I  wish  it  may,  my  lord. 
Stro.  Yes,  t'will  be  so. 

You  come  with  purpose  to  take  present  leave. 
But  you  shall  stay  a  while  ;  my  lord  Vincentio 
Would    see   you    faine,  and  now  is  comming 
hither. 
Ben.   How  knowes  your  lordship  ?   Have  you 

sent  for  him  ?  9S 

Stro.  No,  but  t'is  very  true ;  hee  's  now  hard 

by, 

And  will  not  hinder  your  affaires  a  whit. 

Ben.  [aside'].    How  want  of  rest  distempers  his 
light  braine  ! 
Brings  my  lord  any  traine  ? 

Stro.  None  but  himselfe. 

85-86  Alas  .    .   .   lord.    Qq  print  as  four   lines.    Alas  .    .   . 
Physition.  \   But  .    .    .  it.  \    See  .    .    .  come.  \  How   .   .    .   lord?  | 


238  tETije  arntleman  Wi&\)tt       [act  iv. 

My  nephew  Pogio  now  hath  left  his  grace.  100 

Good  Doctor,  go,  and  bring  him  by  his  hand 
(Which  he  will  give  you)  to  my  longing  eyes. 

Ben.  Tis  strange,  if  this  be  true. 

Exit  \_Benevemus'\. 

Cyn.  The  Prince,  I  thinke, 

Yet  knowes  not  of  your  hurt. 

Enter  Vincentio,  holding  the  Doctors  hand. 
Stro.  Yes,  wife,  too  well. 

See,  he  is  come ;   welcome,  my  princely  friend  :  105 
I  have  been  shot,  my  lord ;  but  the  seventh  day 
The  arrowes  head  will  fall  out  of  my  side, 
And  I  shall  live. 

Vincentio.  I  doe  not  feare  your  life  ; 

But,  Doctor,  is  it  your  opinion 
That  the  seventh  day  the  arrow  head  will  out  ?  "o 
Stro.   No,  t'is  not  his  opinion,  t'is  my  know- 
ledge : 
For  I  doe  know  it  well ;  and  I  do  wish 
Even  for  your  onely  sake,  my  noble  lord. 
This  were  the   seventh  day,  and    I  now  were 

well. 
That   I  might  be  some  strength  to  your  hard 

state,  115 

For  you  have  many  perils  to  endure : 
Great  is  your  danger,  great ;  your  unjust  ill 

103-104   Tis  .  ..  well.    Qq  print  as  four  lines.     Tis  .  .  .  true.  I 
The  .  .   .   thinke,  \  Yet  .   .   .   hurt.  \   Yes  .   .   .   well.  I 


Scene  HI.]    ^j^e  ^entlftttan  tttsfljeit:  239 

Is  passing  foule  and  mortall ;   would  to  God 
My  wound  were  something  well,  I  might  be  with 

you. 
Nay,  do  not  whisper ;   I  know  what  I  say  120 

Too  well  for  you,  my  lord  ;   I  wonder  heaven 
Will  let  such  violence  threat  an  innocent  life. 

Vin.   What  ere  it  be,  deare  friend,  so  you  be 
well, 
I  will  endure  it  all ;  your  wounded  state 
Is  all  the  daunger  I  feare  towards  me.  125 

Stro.  Nay,  mine  is  nothing  ;  for  the  seventh  day 
This  arrow  head  will  out,  and  I  shall  live ; 
And  so  shall  you,  I  thinke ;  but  verie  hardly. 
It  will  be  hardly  you  will  scape  indeed. 

Vin.   Be  as  will  be;  pray  heaven  your  prophecie  130 
Be  happily  accomplished  in  your  selfe. 
And  nothing  then  can  come  amisse  to  me. 

Stro.    What  say es  my  doctor?   Thinks  he  I  say 
true  ? 

Ben.    If  your  good  lordship  could  but  rest  a 
while, 
I  would  hope  well. 

Stro.  Yes,  I  shall  rest,  I  know,     13s 

If  that  will  helpe  your  judgement. 

Ben.  Yes,  it  will. 

And,  good  my  lord,  lets  helpe  you  in  to  trie. 

Stro.  You    please   me    much,  I    shall    sleepe 
instantly.  Exeunt  [omnes'\ . 


240  tB^ije  Gentleman  Wi&\)tt      [act  iv. 

[Sc^NA  QUARTA. 

J  Room  in  the  House  of  Lasso.'] 
Enter  Alphonso  and  Medice. 

Alphonso.   Why  should  the  humorous  boy  for- 
sake the  chace, 
As  if  he  tooke  advantage  of  my  absence 
To  some  act  that  my  presence  would  offend  ? 

Medice.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord,t'is  to  that  end : 
And  I  beleeve  he  wrongs  you  in  your  love.  5 

Children,  presuming  on  their  parents  kindnesse, 
Care  not  what  unkind  actions  they  commit 
Against  their  quiet :   and  were  I  as  you, 
I  would  affright  my  sonne  from  these  bold  parts, 
And  father  him  as  I  found  his  deserts.  10 

Jlp.  I  sweare  I   will :    and  can  I  prove   he 
aymes 
At  any  interruption  in  my  love, 
He  interrupt  his  life. 

Med.  We  soone  shall  see, 

For  I  have  made  Madam  Corteza  search 
With  pick-locks  all  the  ladies  cabynets  15 

About  Earle  Lassos  house ;  and  if  there  be 
Traffique  of  love  twixt  any  one  of  them 
And  your  suspected  sonne  t'will  soone  appeare 
In  some  signe  of  their  amorous  marchandise  ; 
See  where  she  comes,  loded  with  jems  &  papers.  20 


Scene  IV.]        ^})t  StntltmUXl  MH^tt  24 1 

Enter  Cort\_ezd\. 
Cortexa.   See  here,  my  lord,  I   have  rob'd  all 
their  caskets ; 
Know    you    this    ring  ?    this    carquanet  ?    this 

chaine  ? 
Will  any  of  these  letters  serve  your  turne  ? 
Alp.   I  know  not  these  things;  but  come,  let 
me  reade 
Some  of  these  letters. 

[Med.'j  Madam,  in  this  deed  25 

You  deserve  highly  of  my  lord  the  Duke. 

Cor.  Nay,  my  lord  Medice,  I  thinke  I  told 
you 
I  could  do  prettie  well  in  these  affaires  : 
O  these  yong  girles  engrosse  up  all  the  love 
From    us,   (poore    beldams !)    but,   I    hold   my 

hand,  3° 

He  ferret  all  the  cunni-holes  of  their  kindnesse 
Ere  I  have  done  with  them. 

J/p.  Passion  of  death  ! 

See,  see.  Lord  Medice,  my  trait'rous  sonne 
Hath  long  joyde  in  the  favours  of  my  love  : 
Woe  to  the  wombe  that  bore  him,  and  my  care  35 
To  bring  him  up  to  this  accursed  houre, 
In  which  all  cares  possesse  my  wretched  life  ! 
Med.   What   father  would  beleeve  he  had  a 
Sonne 

25   Med.    Qq  and  S,  Lass.    See  Notes,  p.  292. 


242  tD^lje  (ScntUman  Wi&^^tt      [act  iv. 

So  full  of  trecherie  to  his  innocent  state  ? 

And  yet,  my  lord,  this  letter  shewes  no  meeting,  4° 

But  a  desire  to  meete. 

Cor.  Yes,  yes,  my  lord, 

I  doe  suspect  they  meete;  and  I  beleeve 
I  know  well  where  too ;   I  beleeve  I  doe  ; 
And  therefore  tell  me,  does  no  creature  know 
That  you  have  left  the  chase  thus  suddenly  45 

And   are   come  hither?    Have  you   not   beene 

scene 
By  any  of  these  lovers  ? 

JIp.  Not  by  any. 

Cor.   Come  then,  come  follow  me  ;   I  am  per- 

swaded 
I  shall  go  neare  to  shew  you  their  kind  hands. 
Their  confidence  that  you  are  still  a  hunting        5° 
Will  make  your  amorous  sonne,  that  stole  from 

thence, 
Bold   in  his  love-sports  ;  come,  come,  a  fresh 

chace  ! 
I  hold  this  pickelocke,  you  shall  hunt  at  view. 
What,  do  they  thinke  to  scape  !    An  old  wives 

eye 
Is  a  blew  cristall  full  of  sorcerie.  55 

Jlp.   If  this  be  true,  the  traitorous  boy  shall 

die.  Exeunt  \omnes\. 

49  hands,  so  Qq.    2"^'')''  hants. 


Scene  IV]        ^\)t  i&mtitm^n  M&\ftt  243 

E;iter  Lasso,  Margaret,  Bassiolo  going  before. 

Lasso.  Tell    me,   I    pray   you,   what   strange 
hopes  they  are 
That  feed  your  coy  conceits  against  the  Duke, 
And  are  prefer'd  before  the  assured  greatnes 
His  Highnesse  graciously  would  make  your  for- 
tunes. ^° 

Margaret.  I  have  small  hopes,  my  lord ;  but 
a  desire 
To  make  my  nuptiall  choice  of  one  I  love, 
And  as  I  would  be  loath  t'  impaire  my  state, 
So  I  affect  not  honours  that  exceed  it. 

Las.  O  you  are  verie  temp'rate  in  your  choice,  65 
Pleading  a  judgement  past  your  sexe  and  yeares. 
But  I  beleeve  some  fancie  will  be  found 
The  forge  of  these  gay  gloses  :   if  it  be, 
I  shall  descipher  what  close  traitor  tis 
That  is  your  agent  in  your  secret  plots —  70 

Bassiolo  ^aside'\.    Swoones  ! 

Las.  And  him  for  whom  you  plot ;  and  on  you  all 
I  will  revenge  thy  disobedience 
With  such  severe  correction  as  shall  fright 
All  such  deluders  from  the  like  attempts :  75 

But  chiefly  he  shall  smart  that  is  your  factor. 

Bas.  [_aside'\.   O  me  accurst! 

Las.  Meane  time  He  cut 

Your  poore  craft  short,  yfaith. 

Mar.  Poore  craft,  indeede, 

That  I,  or  any  others,  use  for  me. 


244  ^Ije  Gentleman  Wis^tt      [act  iv. 

Las.  Well,  dame,  if  it  be  nothing  but  thje  jarre  80 
Of  your  unfitted  fancie  that  procures 
Your  wilfull  coynesse  to  my  lord  the  Duke, 
No  doubt    but  time  and  judgement   will  con- 
forme  it 
To  such  obedience  as  so  great  desert 
Proposde  to  your  acceptance  doth  require.  85 

To  which  end  doe  you  counsaile  her,  Bassiolo. 
And  let  me  see,  maid,  gainst  the  Duks  returne, 
Another  tincture  set  upon  your  lookes 
Then  heretofore ;   for  be  assur'd  at  last 
Thou  shalt  consent,  or  else  incurre  my  curse  :     9° 
Advise  her  you,  Bassiolo.  Exit  [Lasso]. 

Bas.  I,  my  good  lord  ; 

\^Aside.'\  Gods  pittie,  what  an  errant  asse  was  I 
To  entertaine  the  Princes  craftie  friendship  ! 
Slood,  I  halfe  suspect  the  villaine  guld  me. 

Mar.   Our  squire,  I  thinke,  is  startl'd. 

Bas.  Nay,  ladie,  it  is  true,  95 

And  you  must  frame  your  fancie  to  the  Duke, 
For  I  protest  I  will  not  be  corrupted. 
For  all  the  friends  and  fortunes  in  the  world, 
To  gull  my  lord  that  trusts  me. 

Mar.  O  sir,  now, 

Y'are  true  too  late. 

Bas.  No,  ladie,  not  a  whit ;         100 

Slood,  and  you  thinke  to  make  an  asse  of  me. 
May  chance  to  rise  betimes  ;  I  know  't,  I  know. 


Scene  iv]     tlT^e  ^mtlematt  Wi6})tt  245 

Afar.   Out,  servile  coward  !    Shall  a  light  sus- 
pect, 
That  hath  no  slendrest  proofe  of  what  we  do, 
Infringe  the  weightie  faith  that  thou  hast  sworne  105 
To  thy  deare  friend  the  Prince,  that  dotes  on  thee, 
And  will  in  peeces  cut  thee  for  thy  falshood  ? 

Bas.  I  care  not ;  He  not  hazard  my  estate 
For  any  prince  on  earth :  and  He  disclose 
The  complot  to  your  father,  if  you  yeeld  not      no 
To  his  obedience. 

Mar.  Doe,  if  thou  dar'st, 

Even  for  thy  scrapt  up  living  and  thy  life  ! 
He  tell  my  father,  then,  how  thou  didst  wooe  me 
To  love  the  yong  Prince,  and  diSst  force  me,  too. 
To  take  his  letters  ;  I  was  well  enclin'd,  "S 

I  will  be  sworne,  before,  to  love  the  Duke, 
But  thy  vile  railing  at  him  made  me  hate  him. 

Bas.   I  raile  at  him  ? 

Mar.  I,  marie,  did  you,  sir; 

And  said  he  was  a  patterne  for  a  potter. 
Fit  t'  have  his  picture  stampt  on  a  stone  jugge,  120 
To  keepe  ale-knights  in  memorie  of  sobriety. 

Bas.  \_aside~^.    Sh'as  a  plaguie  memory! 

Mar.   I  could  have  lov'd  him  else ;  nay,  I  did 
love  him. 
Though  I  dissembled  it,  to  bring  him  on. 
And  I  by  this  time  might  have  beene  a  Dutch- 

esse;  125 


246  tir^e  (Smtleman  tHg^er      (act  iv. 

And  now  I  thinke  on  't  better,  for  revenge 
He  have  the  Duke,  and  he  shall  have  thy  head 
For  thy  false  wit  within  it  to  his  love. 
Now  goe  and  tell  my  father,  pray  be  gone. 

Bas.   Why,  and  I  will  goe.  13° 

Mar.   Goe,  for  Gods  sake  goe ;  are  you  heere 

yet  ? 
Bas.  Well,  now  I  am  resolv'd.  [^Going.'\ 

Mar.  Tis  bravely  done,  farewell :  but  do  you 
heare,  sir  ? 
Take  this  with  you  besides  :   the  young  Prince 

keepes 
A  certaine  letter  you  had  writ  for  me,  13s 

("  Endearing,"  and  "  Condoling,"    and    "  Ma- 
ture ") 
And  if  you  should  denie  things,  that,  I  hope, 
Will  stop  your  impudent  mouth  :   but  goe  your 

waies. 
If  you  can  answer  all  this,  why  tis  well. 

Bas.   Well,  lady,  if  you  will  assure  me  heere  140 
You    will  refraine    to    meete  with    the    young 

Prince, 
I  will  say  nothing. 

Mar.  Good  sir,  say  your  worst. 

For  I  will  meete  him,  and  that  presently. 

Bas.  Then  be  content,  I  pray,  and  leave  me 
out. 
And  meete  heereafter  as  you  can  your  selves.     i4S 


Scene  IV.]         ^j^C  ^mtlCttian  M&^tt  247 

Afar.  No,  no,  sir,  no;  tis  you  must  fetch  him 
to  me, 
And  you  shal  fetch  him,  or  He  do  your  arrand. 
Bas.    \_aside'\.   Swounds,  what  a  spight  is  this  ! 
I  will  resolve 
T'  endure  the  worst  j  tis  but  my  foolish  feare 
The  plot  will  be  discoverd.  —  O  the  gods  !  150 

Tis  the  best  sport  to   play    with   these  young 

dames ; 
I  have  dissembl'd,  mistris,  all  this  while; 
Have  I  not  made  you  in  a  pretty  taking  ? 

Afar.   O  tis  most  good  !  thus  may  you  play 
on  me ; 
You  cannot  be  content  to  make  me  love  155 

A  man  I  hated  till  you  spake  for  him 
With  such  inchanting  speeches  as  no  friend 
Could  possibly  resist ;   but  you  must  use 
Your  villanous  wit  to  drive  me  from  my  wits  : 
A  plague  of  that  bewitching  tongue  of  yours  !     160 
Would  I  had  never  heard  your  scurvie  words. 
Bas.   Pardon,  deare  dame.  He  make  amends, 
i  faith ; 
Thinke  you  that  He  play  false  with  my  deare 

Vince  ? 
I  swore  that  sooner  Hybla  should  want  bees. 
And  Italy  bone  robes,  then  I  faith ;  165 

165-166  lAen  I  faith;  \  And.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  then  I;  faith 
j  And.  S,  than  —  i'faith,  |  And. 


248  (B^tie  <Sentleman  Wi&i)tt       [act  v. 

And  so  they  shall. 

Come,  you    shall   meete,  and  double  meete,  in 

spight 
Of  all  your  foes,  and  dukes  that  dare  maintaine 

them, 
A  plague  of  all  old  doters  !    I  disdaine  them. 
Mar.  Said  like  a  friend ;   O  let   me  combe 
the  cokscombe.  170 

\^£xeunt  Margaret  and  Bassiolo.'\ 
170  the.    So  Qq.  Query,  thy. 


Finh  Actus  ^arti. 


Actus  Quinti  Sc^ena  Prima. 
[J  Room,  with  a  Gallery,  in  the  House  of  Las  so. \ 
Enter  Alphonso,  Medice,  Lasso,  Cortezza  above. 

Corteza.   Heere  is  the  place  will  doe  the  deede, 
ifaith ; 
This,  Duke,  will   shew  thee   how  youth   puts 

downe  age, 
I,  and  perhaps  how  youth  does  put  downe  youth. 

Alphomo.  If  I  shall  see  my  love  in  any  sort 
Prevented,  or  abusde,  th'  abuser  dies.  5 

Lasso.  I  hope  there  is  no  such  intent,  my  liege. 
For  sad  as  death  should  I  be  to  behold  it. 

Medice.  You  must  not  be  too  confident,  my 
lord, 
Or  in  your  daughter,  or  in  them  that  guard  her. 
The  Prince  is  politike,  and  envies  his  father :        lo 
And  though  not  for  himselfe,  nor  any  good 
Intended  to  your  daughter,  yet  because 
He  knowes  t'would  kill  his  father,  he  would 
seeke  her. 
Cor.  Whist,  whist,  they  come. 

^They  crouch  in  upper  stage. "j 
Enter  \below\  Bassiolo,  Vincentio,  and  Margaret. 
Bassiolo.  Come,  meete  me  boldly,  come. 

And  let  them  come  from  hunting  when  they  dare.  15 


250         tE^lje  Gentleman  Me^tt       [act  v. 

Vincentio.   Haz  the  best  spirit ! 
Bas.  "  Spirit  "  ?  What  a  plague  ! 

Shall  a  man  feare  capriches  ?    You,  forsooth, 
Must  have  your  love  come  t'ee,  and  when  he 

comes, 
Then  you  grow  shamefac'd,  and  he  must  not 

touch  you  : 
But  "  Fie,  my   father  comes  !  "  and  "  Foe,  my 

aunt !  "  20 

0  t'is  a  wittie  hearing,  ist  not,  thinke  you  ? 
Vin.  Nay,   pray   thee   doe    not    mocke   her, 

gentle  friend. 
Bas.  Nay,  you  are  even  as  wise  a  wooer  too ; 
If  she  turne  from  you,  you  even  let  her  turne. 
And  say  you  doe  not  love  to  force  a  lady,  ^s 

T'is  too  much  rudenesse.    Gosh  hat !    what 's 

a  lady  ? 
Must  she  not  be  touch'd  ?  What,  is  she  copper, 

thinke  you, 
And  will  not  bide  the  touch-stone  ?    Kisse  her, 

Vince, 
And  thou  doost  love  me,  kisse  her. 

Vin.  Lady,  now 

1  were  too  simple  if  I  should  not  offer.  3° 

[He  kisses  her.] 
Margaret.   O  God,  sir,  pray,  away  ;  this  man 

talks  idlely. 
Bas.   How  shay  by  that  ?    Now  by  that  candle 

there, 


Scene  I]      X!!i^\)t  &mtiemm  Wi$\)tt  251 

Were  I  as  Vince  is,  I  would  handle  you 
In  ruftie  tuftie  wise,  in  your  right  kinde. 

Mar.    \_aside'].   O,    you    have    made    him    a 

sweete  beagle  ;  ha'y  not  ?  35 

Fin.    [«x/V^].  T'is  the  most  true  beleever  in 
himselfe 
Of  all  that  sect  of  foUie  ;  faith  's  his  fault. 
Bas.  So,  to  her,  Vince  !    I  give  thee  leave, 
my  lad. 
"  Sweete  were  the  words  my  mistris  spake. 
When  teares  fell  from  her  eyes."  4° 

He  lies  down  by  them. 
Thus,  as  the  lyon  lies  before  his  den, 
Guarding  his  whelps,  and  streakes  his  carelesse 

limbs. 
And  when   the  panther,  foxe,  or  wolfe  comes 

neere. 
He  never  daines  to  rise  to  fright  them  hence, 
But  onely  puts  forth  one  of  his  sterne  pawes,       45 
And  keepes  his  deare  whelps  safe,  as  in  a  hutch, 
So  I  present  his  person,  and  keepe  mine. 
Foxes,  goe  by ;   I  put  my  terror  forth. 

Cant[at\. 
Let  all  the  world  say  what  they  can, 

Her  bargaine  best  she  makes,  5° 

That  hath  the  wit  to  choose  a  man. 
To  pay  for  that  he  takes. 

Belle  Piu,  t^c.  Iterum  cant[at]. 

39-40   Sweete   .   .    .   eyes.    One  line  in  Qq. 


252  Slje  Gentleman  taglier       [actv. 

Dispatch,  sweete  whelps,  the  bug,  the  Duke, 

comes  strait : 
O  tis  a  grave  old  lover,  that  same  Duke, 
And  chooses  minions  rarely,  if  you  marke  him,    55 
The  noble  Medice,  that  man,  that  Bobbadilla, 
That  foolish  knave,  that  hose  and  dublet  stinck- 
ard! 
Med.  Swounds,  my  lord,  rise,  lets  indure  no 

more. 
Alp.  A  little,  pray,  my  lord,  for  I  beleeve 
We  shall  discover  very  notable  knavery.  60 

Las.  Alas,  how  I  am  greev'd  and  sham'd  in  this ! 
Cor.  Never  care  you,  lord  brother,  theres  no 

harme  done. 
Bas.   But  that  sweet  creature,  my  good  lords 
sister. 
Madam  Cortezza,  she,  the  noblest  dame 
That  ever  any  veine  of  honour  bled,  65 

There  were  a  wife,  now,  for  my  Lord  the  Duke, 
Had  he  the  grace  to  choose  her ;  but,  indeede. 
To  speake  her  true  praise  I  must  use  some  study. 

Cor.   Now  truly,  brother,  I  did  ever  thinke 
This  man  the  honestest  man  that  ere  you  kept.    70 
Las.  So,  sister,  so,  because  he  praises  you. 
Cor.  Nay,  sir,  but  you  shall  heare  him  further 

yet. 
Bas.  Were  not  her  head  sometimes  a  little 
light. 


Scene!.]  ^^t  (QtntUmm  '^i\)tV  253 

And  so,  unapt  for  matter  of  much  weight, 
She  were  the  fittest  and  the  worthiest  dame  75 

To  leape  a  window,  and  to  breake  her  necke, 
That  ever  was. 

Cor.  Gods  pitty,  arrant  knave  ! 

I  ever  thought  him  a  dissembling  varlot. 

Bas.  Well,  now,  my  hearts,  be  warie,  for  by 
this 
I  feare  the  Duke  is  comming  ;  He  go  watch,       80 
And  give  you  warning  :   I  commend  me  t'ee. 

Exit  [^Bassio/o], 

Fin.  O  fine  phrase  ! 

Mar.  And  very  timely  usde  ! 

Fin.  What  now,  sweete  life,  shall  we  resolve 
upon  ? 
We  never  shall  injoy  each  other  heere. 

Mar.  Direct  you  then,  my  lord,  what  we  shall 
doe,  85 

For  I  am  at  your  will,  and  will  indure 
With  you  the  cruellst  absence  from  the  state 
We  both  were  borne  too  that  can  be  supposde. 
Fin.  That  would  extreamely  greeve  me ;  could 
my  selfe 
Onely  indure  the  ill  our  hardest  fates  9° 

May  lay  on  both  of  us,  I  would  not  care ; 
But  to  behold  thy  sufferance  I  should  die. 
Mar.   How  can  your  lordship  wrong  my  love 
so  much 


254  tlTlie  (Sentleman  M&\)tt       [act  v. 

To  thinke  the  more  woe  I  sustaine  for  you 
Breedes  not  the  more  my  comfort  ?    I,  alas,          95 
Have  no  meane  else  to  make  my  merit  even 
In  any  measure  with  your  eminent  worth. 
[^Re-^enter  Bassiolo. 
Bas.    \aside~\ .  Now  must  I  exercise  my  tim- 
orous lovers, 
Like    fresh    arm'd    souldiers,  with  some    false 

alarms, 
To  make  them  yare  and  warie  of  their  foe,         100 
The   boistrous   bearded    Duke :   He  rush   upon 

them 
With  a  most  hideous  cry, 

—  The  Duke  !    the  Duke  !   the  Duke  ! 
\_Fincentio  and  Margaret  run  out.^ 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  wo  ho,  come  againe,  I  say  ; 
The  Duke  's  not  come,  ifaith. 

[^Re-enter  Fincentio  and  Margaret."^ 
Fin.  Gods  precious,  man  ! 

What  did  you  meane  to  put  us  in  this  feare  ?      105 
Bas.   O    sir,   to   make   you   looke  about   the 
more ; 
Nay,  we  must  teach  you  more  of  this,  I  tell  you  : 
What,  can  you  be  too  safe,  sir  ?    What,  I  say. 
Must  you  be  pamperd  in  your  vanities  ? 
\_Jside.'^    Ah,  I  do  domineere  and  rule  the  rost.  no 

Exit  \_£assio/o] . 


Scene  I.]      X!^\)t  (3mtltmzn  Wi&\)tt  255 

Afar.   Was  ever  such  an  ingle  ?      Would  to 
God, 
(If  twere  not  for  our  selves)  my  father  saw  him. 
Las.  Minion,  you  have  your  praier,  and  my 
curse, 
For  your  good  huswiferie. 

Afed.  What  saies  your  Highnesse  ? 

Can  you  indure  these  injuries  any  more  ?  115 

^/p.  No  more,  no  more ;  advise  me  what  is 
best 
To  be  the  penance  of  my  gracelesse  sonne. 
Afed.  My  lord,  no  meane  but  death  or  banish- 
ment 
Can  be  fit  penance  for  him,  if  you  meane 
T'injoy  the  pleasure  of  your  love  your  selfe.       i^o 
Cor.   Give   him  plaine   death,  my  lord,   and 

then  y'are  sure. 
j^/p.   Death,  or  his  banishment,  he  shall  indure 
For  wreake  of  that  joyes  exile  I  sustaine. 
Come,  call  our  gard,  and  apprehend  him  strait. 
Exeunt  \_Alphonso,  Me  dice.  Lasso,  and  Corteza"^ . 
Fin.  I  have  some  Jewells,  then,  my  dearest 
life,  125 

Which,  with  what  ever  we  can  get  beside. 
Shall  be  our  meanes,  and  we  will  make  escape. 
Enter  Bassiolo  running, 
Bas.  Sblood,  the  Duke  and  all  come  now  in 
earnest ; 


256  XJI^\)t  <5mtltmnn  Wi&\)tt       [act  v. 

The  Duke,  by  heaven,  the  Duke  ! 

Fin.  Nay,  then,  ifaith. 

Your  jeast  Is  too  too  stale. 

Bas.  Gods  pretious,  13° 

By  these  ten  bones,  and  by  this  hat  and  heart. 
The  Duke  and  all  comes  !     See,  we  are  cast 
away  !         Exeunt  \_Ba5siol0  and  Vincentio'\  . 

Enter  Alphonso,  Medice,  Lasso,  [zvho  seizes  Margaret,'^ 
Cortezza,  and  Julio. 
Alp.  Lay  hands  upon  them  all,  pursue,  pur- 
sue ! 
Las.  Stay,  thou  ungracious  girle  ! 
Alp.  Lord  Medice, 

Leade  you  our  guard,  and  see  you  apprehend      135 
The  treacherous  boy,  nor  let  him  scape  with  life 
Unlesse  he  yeelde  to  his  [eternall]  exile. 
Med.  T'is  princely  said,  my  lord. 

Exit  \Medice'\. 
Las.  And  take  my  usher  ! 

Mar.  Let  me  goe  into  exile  with  my  lord  ; 
I  will  not  live,  if  I  be  left  behinde.  140 

Las.   Impudent  damzell,  wouldst  thou  follow 

him  ? 
Mar.   He  is  my  husband,  whom  else  should  I 

follow  ? 
Las.  Wretch,  thou  speakest   treason   to  my 
lord  the  Duke. 

137  eternall.    Emend  S.      Qq,  external,  probably  influenced  by 
the  following  word,  exile. 


Scene  I.l  ^\)t  (Qtntitmm  M&l)tt  257 

JIp.   Yet  love  me,  lady,  and  I  pardon  all. 

Afar.   I  have  a  husband,  and  must  love  none 
else.  HS 

J/p.  Dispightfull  dame,  He  dis-tnherit  him, 
And  thy  good  father  heere  shall  cast  ofF  thee, 
And  both  shall  feede  on  ayre,  or  starve  and  die. 

Mar.   If  this  be  justice,  let  it  be  our  doomes  : 
If  free  and  spotlesse  love  in  equall  yeares,  150 

With  honours  unimpaired,  deserve  such  ends. 
Let  us  approve  what  justice  is  in  friends. 

Las.  You  shall,  I  sweare  ;  sister,  take  you  her 
close 
Into  your  chamber,  locke  her  fast  alone, 
And  let  her  stirre,  nor  speake  with  any  one.         iss 

Cor.   She  shall  not,  brother :  come,  neece,  come 
with  me. 

Mar.   Heaven  save  my  love,  and  I  will  suffer 
gladly.  Exeunt  Cor\_teza  and'\   Mar\_garef\. 

Jlp.  Haste,  Julio,  follow  thou  my  sons  pursuit, 
And  will  Lord  Medice  not  to  hurt  nor  touch  him. 
But  either  banish  him,  or  bring  him  backe  :         160 
Charge  him  to  use  no  violence  to  his  life. 

Julio.   I  will,  my  lord.  Exit  Julio. 

Alp.  O  Nature  !   how,  alas. 

Art  thou  and  Reason,  thy  true  guide,  opposde  ! 
More  bane  thou  tak'st  to  guide  Sense,  led  amisse. 
Then,  being  guided,  Reason  gives  thee  blisse.     165 
Exeunt  \_Alphonso  and  Lasso~^ . 


258  tn^^e  Gentleman  tDJ0l)fr       [act  v. 

[Sc/ENA    SeCUNDA. 

A  Room  in  the  House  of  StrozzaS] 

Enter  Cynanche,  Benevenius,  Jncilla,  Strozza  having 
the  arrow  head  \jn  his  hand'\. 

Strozza.  Now  see,  good  Doctor,   t'was    no 
frantike  fancie 
That  made  my  tongue  presage  this  head  should 

fall 
Out  of  my  wounded  side  the  seventh  day  ; 
But  an  inspired  rapture  of  my  minde. 
Submitted  and  conjoynde  in  patience 
To  my  Creator,  in  whom  I  fore-saw 
(Like  to  an  angell)  this  divine  event. 

Benivemus.   So   is   it  plaine,  and   happily  ap- 
prov'd 
In  a  right  Christian  president,  confirming 
What  a  most  sacred  medcine  patience  is, 
That  with  the  high  thirst  of  our  soules  cleare  fire 
Exhausts  corporeall  humour,  and  all  paine, 
Casting  our  flesh  off,  while  we  it  retaine. 

Cynanche.   Make  some  religious  vow  then,  my 
deare  lord. 
And  keepe  it  in  the  proper  memorie 
Of  so  celestiall  and  free  a  grace. 

Stro.  Sweete  wife,  thou  restest  my  good  angell 
still. 


Scene  II.]         ^\)t  (Qtntltmm  WiS\)Ct  259 

Suggesting  by  all   meanes   these   ghostly  coun- 

sailes. 
Thou  weariest  not  thy  husbands  patient  eares 
With  motions  for  new  fashions  in  attire,  20 

For  change  of  Jewells,  pastimes,  and  nice  cates, 
Nor  studiest  eminence,  and  the  higher  place 
Amongst  thy  consorts,  like  all  other  dames  ; 
But  knowing  more  worthy  objects  appertaine 
To  every  woman  that  desires  t'  injoy  25 

A  blessed  life  in  mariage,  thou  contemn'st 
Those  common  pleasures,  and  pursu'st  the  rare, 
Using  thy  husband  in  those  vertuous  gifts 
For  which  thou  first  didst  choose  him,  and  thereby 
Cloy'st  not  with  him,  but  lov'st  him  endlesly.      30 
In  reverence  of  thy  motion,  then,  and  zeale 
To  that  most   soveraigne  power  that  was  my 

cure, 
I  make  a  vowe  to  goe  on  foote  to  Rome, 
And  offer  humbly  in  S  [aint]  Peters  Temple 
This  fatall  arrow  head  :   which  work  let  none 

judge  35 

A  superstitious  rite,  but  a  right  use, 
Proper  to  this  peculiar  instrument. 
Which,  visiblie  resignde  to  memorie. 
Through    every   eye    that   sees   will    stirre   the 

soule 
To  gratitude  and  progresse,  in  the  use  40 

34  Saint  Peters.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  5.  Peters 


26o  XSl^t  (Sentleman  Wisi\)tt       [act  v. 

Of  my  tried  patience,  which,  in  my  powers  end- 
ing. 
Would  shut  th'  example  out  of  future  lives. 
No  act  is  superstitious  that  applies 
All  power  to  God,  devoting  hearts  through  eyes. 

Ben.   Spoke  with  the  true  tongue  of  a  noble- 
man :  45 
But  now  are  all  these  excitations  toyes. 
And  Honor  fats  his  braine  with  other  joyes. 
I  know  your  true  friend,  Prince  Vincentio, 
Will  triumph  in  this  excellent  effect 
Of  your  late  prophecie. 

Stro.  O,  my  deare  friends  name  50 

Presents  my  thoughts  with  a  most  mortall  danger 
To  his  right  innocent  life :  a  monstrous  fact 
Is  now  effected  on  him. 

Cyn.  Where  ?   or  how  ? 

Stro.   I  doe  not  well  those  circumstances  know, 
But  am  assur'd  the  substance  is  too  true.  55 

Come,  reverend  Doctor,  let  us  hearken  out 
Where  the  young  Prince  remaines,  and  beare 

with  you 
Medcines  t'  allay  his  danger ;  if  by  wounds, 
Beare    pretious    balsome,    or    some    soveraigne 

juyce ; 
If  by  fell  poison,  some  choice  antidote  ;  60 

If  by  blacke   witchcraft,  our  good   spirits   and 
prayers 


Scene  II.]     t!i^\)t  (Qtiiticnmn  ^s\)tt  261 

Shall  exorcise  the  divelish  wrath  of  hell 
Out  of  his  princely  bosome. 

Enter  Pogio  running. 

Pogio.  Where  ?  where  ?  where  ? 

Where  's  my  lord  uncle,  my  lord  my  uncle  ? 

Stro.     Here  's   the   ill  tydings-bringer  j  what 
newes  now  65 

With  thy  unhappie  presence  ? 

Pog.  O  my  lord,  my  lord  Vincentio 

Is  almost  kild  by  my  lord  Medice. 

Stro.   See,  Doctor,  see,  if  my  presage  be  true ! 
And  well  I  know  if  he  have  hurt  the  Prince, 
T'is  trecherously  done,  or  with  much  helpe.         j^ 

Pog.  Nay,  sure,  he  had  no  helpe  but  all  the 
Dukes  guard  ;  and  they  set  upon  him  indeed ; 
and  after  he  had  defended  himselfe,  dee  see  ?  he 
drew,  &  having  as  good  as  wounded  the  lord 
Medice  almost,  he  strake  at  him,  and  missd  75 
him,  dee  marke  ? 

Stro.   What  tale  is  here  ?   Where  is  this  mis- 
chiefe  done  ? 

Pog.  At  Monks-well,  my  lord  ;  He  guide  you 
to  him  presently. 

Stro.  I  doubt  it  not;  fooles  are  best  guides  to  ill,  go 
And  Mischiefes  readie  way  lies  open  still. 
Lead,  sir,  I  pray.  Exeunt  [omnes] . 

63-64    Where  .    .    .  my  uncle.      Qq  print  this  speech  by  Fogio 
as  two  lines  of  prose. 

66-67    0  my   .    .    .    Medice.      Qtj  print  as  one  line  of  prose. 


262  ^i)e  Gentleman  tEgl^er        [act  v. 

[Sc^NA    TeRTIA. 

Corteza's  Chamber,  a  Tower-room  in  Lassd'sHouseA 

Enter  Corteza  and  Margaret  above. 

Corteza.   Quiet  your  selfe,  nece  ;  though  your 
love  be  slaine, 
You  have  another  that 's  woorth  two  of  him. 
Margaret.   It  is  not  possible  ;  it  cannot  be 
That  heaven  should  suffer  such  impietie. 
Cor.  T'is  true,  I  sweare,  neece. 
Mar.  O  most  unjust  truth  !     s 

He  cast    my   selfe  downe  headlong  from    this 

tower, 
And  force  an  instant  passage  for  my  soule, 
To  seeke  the  wandring  spirit  of  my  lord. 

Cor.   Will  you  do  so,  neece  ?  That  I  hope  you 
will  not ; 
And    yet    there   was    a    maid    in    Saint   Marks 

streete  lo 

For  such  a  matter  did  so,  and  her  clothes 
Flew  up  about  her  so  as  she  had  no  harme  : 
And  grace  of  God,  your  clothes  may  flie  up  too, 
And  save  you  harmelesse ;  for  your  cause  and 

hers 
Are  ene  as  like  as  can  be. 

Mar.  I  would  not  scape  ;     15 

And  certainly  I  thinke  the  death  is  easie. 


Scene  III]    ^1)0  ^entlrmau  ta^ljer  263 

Cor.  O  t'is  the  easiest  death  that  ever  was  ; 
Looke,  neece,  it  is  so  farre  hence  to  the  ground, 
You  shoulde   bee  quite   dead  long  before   you 

felt  it. 
Yet  do  not  leape,  neece. 

Mar.  I  will  kill  my  selfe        20 

With  running  on  some  sworde,  or  drinke  strong 

poison  ; 
Which  death  is  easiest  I  would  faine  endure. 

Cor.   Sure  Cleopatra  was  of  the  same  minde, 
And  did  so ;  she  was  honord  ever  since  : 
Yet  do  not  you  so,  neece.  25 

Mar.   Wretch   that   I   am,  my  heart  is  softe 
and  faint. 
And  trembles  at  the  verie  thought  of  death. 
Though  thoughts  ten-folde  more   greevous   do 

torment  it ; 
He  feele  death  by  degrees,  and  first  deforme 
This  my  accursed  face  with  uglie  wounds,  3° 

That  was  the  first  cause  of  my  deare  loves  death. 
Cor.  That  were  a  cruell  deed;  yet  Adelasia, 
In  Pettis  Pallace  of  Petit  Pleasure., 
For  all  the  worlde  with  such  a  knife  as  this 
Cut  off  her  cheeks   and    nose,  and  was    com- 
mended 35 
More  then  all  dames  that  kept  their  faces  whole. 
\Margaret  seizes  the  knife  and  offers  to  cut 
her  face. '\ 
O  do  not  cut  it. 


264  tBi)t  Gentleman  tH0l)et       [act  v. 

Afar.  Fie  on  my  faint  heart ! 

It  will  not  give  my  hand  the  wished  strength ; 
Beholde  the  just  plague  of  a  sensuall  life, 
That,  to  preserve  it  selfe  in  Reasons  spight  40 

And  shunne  Deaths  horror,  feels  it  ten  times 

more. 
Unworthy  women  !   Why  doe  men  adore 
Our  fading  beauties,  when,  their  worthiest  lives 
Being  lost  for  us,  we  dare  not  die  for  them  ? 
Hence  haplesse  ornaments  that  adorn'd  this  head,  45 
Disorder  ever  these  [enticing  curies] 
And  leave  my  beautie  like  a  wildernesse. 
That  never  mans  eie  more  may  dare  t'  invade. 
Cor.   He  tell  you,  neece,  —  and  yet  I  will  not 

tell  you 
A  thing  that  I  desire  to  have  you  doe  —  50 

But  I  will  tell  you  onely  what  you  might  doe. 
Cause  I  would  pleasure  you  in  all  I  cud. 
I  have  an  ointment  heere  which  we  dames  use 
To  take  off  haire  when  it  does  growe  too  lowe 
Upon  our  foreheads,  and  that,  for  a  neede,  55 

If  you  should  rub  it  hard  upon  your  face. 
Would  blister  it,  and  make  it  looke  most  vildely. 
JUar.   O  give  me  that,  aunt. 
Cor.   Give  it  you,  virgin  ?   That  were  well  in- 

deede  : 
Shall  I  be  thought  to  tempt  you  to  such  matters  ?  60 

46  enticing  curies.    Emend.  S.    Qq,  entring  carles. 


Scene  III]    tE^f  (Seittleman  Wia^tt  265 

Mar.  None  (of  my  faith)  shall  know  it :  gen- 
tle aunt, 
Bestow  it  on  me,  and  He  ever  love  you. 

Cor.  Gods  pitty,  but  you  shall  not  spoile  your 

face. 
Afar.  I  will  not  then,  indeede. 
Cor.  Why  then,  neece,  take  it : 

But  you  shall  sweare  you  will  not. 

Mar.  No,  I  sweare.   65 

[^Sbe  seizes  the  box  and  rubs  her  face  with 
the  ointment.'^ 
Cor.  What,  doe  you  force  it  from  me  ?  Gods 
my  deare  ! 
Will   you    mis-use    your    face    so  ?    What,   all 

over  ? 
Nay,  if  you  be  so  desp'rate.  He  be  gone. 

Exit  \Cortexd\. 
Mar.  Fade,  haplesse  beauty,  turne  the  ugliest 
face 
Th[at]  ever  ^^thiop,  or  afFrightfull  fiend,  70 

Shew'd  in  th'  amaz  [e]  d  eye  of  prophan'd  light  : 
See,  pretious  love,  if  thou  be  [yet]  in  ayre, 
And  canst  breake  darknesse  and  the  strongest 

towres 
With  thy  dissolved  ihtellectuall  powres, 

70  That.    Emend.  S.    Qq,  The. 

71  ama%ed.    Emend.  S.    Qq,  amaz'd. 

72  yet.    Emend,  ed.    Qq,  it. 


266  t!Pl)f  (Gentleman  tKsftier        [actv. 

See  a  worse  torment  suffered  for  thy  death  75 

Then  if  it  had  extended  his  blacke  force 

In  seven-fold  horror  to  my  hated  life. 

Smart,    pretious    ointment,    smart,  and   to    my 

braine 
Sweate  thy  envenom'd  furie,  make  my  eyes 
Burne  with  thy  sulphre  like  the  lakes  of  hell,       80 
That  feare  of  me  may  shiver  him  to  dust 
That  eate  his  owne  childe  with  the  jawes  of 

lust.  \^Exit  Margaret.'^ 

[SCiENA    QUARTA. 
j^  Room  in  Lassoes  House. ~^ 
Enter  Alphonso,  Lasso,  and  others. 

Alphonso.  I  wonder  how  farre  they  pursu'd  my 
Sonne, 
That  no  returne  of  him  or  them  appears ; 
I  feare  some  haplesse  accident  is  chanc'd 
That  makes  the  newes  so  loath  to  pierce  mine 
eares. 
Lasso.   High  Heaven  vouchsafe  no  such  effect 
succeede  5 

Those  wretched  causes  that  from  my  house  flow, 
But  that  in  harmelesse  love  all  acts  may  end. 
Enter  Cortezza. 
Corteza.   What  shall  I  do  ?  Alas,  I  cannot  rule 

Exit  Margaret.    Qq,  Exeunt. 


Scene  IV.]         ^f)t  (^mtltmnXX  Wi6\)n  26  J 

My   desparate    neece ;    all   her    sweete   face    is 

spoylde, 
And  I  dare  keepe  her  prisoner  no  more:  10 

See,  see,  she  comes,  frantike  and  all  undrest. 
Enter  Marg  ^aref^ . 
Margaret.  Tyrant !  behold  how  thou  hast  usde 

thy  love ; 
See,  theefe  to  Nature,  thou  hast  kil'd  and  rob'd, 
Kil'd  what  my  selfe  kill'd,  rob'd   what  makes 

thee  poore. 
Beautie  (a  lovers  treasure)  thou  hast  lost  15 

Where   none   can   find  it;   all   a    poore    maides 

dowre 
Thou  hast  forc'd  from  me,  all  my  joy  and  hope. 
No  man  will  love  me  more ;  all  dames  excell  me  : 
This  ougly  thing  is  now  no  more  a  face 
Nor  any  vile  forme  in  all  earth  resembled,  20 

But  thy  fowle  tyrannic  ;   for  which  all  the  paines 
Two  faithfull  lovers  feele,  that  thus  are  parted. 
All  joyes   they   might    have  felt,  turne   all   to 

paines  ; 
All  a  yong  virgin  thinks  she  does  endure 
To  loose  her  love  and  beautie,  on  thy  heart  25 

Be  heapt  and  prest  downe  till  thy  soule  depart. 
Enter  Julio. 
Julio.   Haste,  Liege  !  your  sonne  is  daunger- 

ously  hurt. 

20  resembled,  so  gq,    S,  resembles. 


268  tE^ljf  ^rntleman  tastier        [act  v. 

Lord  Medice,  contemning  your  commaund, 
By  me  delivered,  as  your  Highnesse  will'd, 
Set  on  him  with  your  guard,  who  strooke  him 

downe ;  3° 

And  then  the  coward  lord  with  mortall  wounds 
And  slavish  insolencie  plow'd  up  his  soft  breast ; 
Which  barbarous  fact,  in  part,  is  laid  on  you. 
For  first  enjoyning  it,  and  fowle  exclaimes 
In  pittie  of  your  sonne  your  subjects  breathe        35 
Gainst  your  unnaturall  furie  ;   amongst  whom 
The  good  Lord  Strozza  desp'rately  raves, 
And  vengeance  for  his  friends  injustice  craves. 
See  where  he  comes,  burning  in  zeale  of  friend- 
ship. 

Enter  Strozza,  Vincentio,  brought  in  a  chaire,  Bene- 
venius,  Pogio,  Cynanche,  with  a  guard,  ^  Medice. 
Strozza.   Where  is  the  tyrant  ?  Let  me  strike 
his  eyes  4° 

Into  his  braine  with  horror  of  an  object. 

See,  pagan  Nero,  see  how  thou  hast  ript 

Thy  better  bosome,  rooted  up  that  flowre 

From  whence  thy  now  spent  life  should  spring 
anew. 

And  in  him  kild  (that  would  have  bred  thee  fresh)  45 

Thy  mother  and  thy  father. 

Vincentio.  Good  friend,  cease. 

guard  .    .    .    &.     Between   these   words    gq    insert    "  Stroz,%a 
before. ' ' 


Scene  IV.]     ^\)t  ^mtlcman  tlUflfljer  269 

Stro.   What  hag,  with  child  of  monster,  would 
have  nurst 
Such  a  prodigious  longing  ?    But  a  father 
Would  rather  eate  the  brawne  out  of  his  armes 
Then  glut  the  mad  worme  of  his  wilde  desires     50 
With  his  deare  issues  entrailes. 

Fin.  Honourd  friend. 

He  is  my  father,  and  he  is  my  prince, 
In  both  whose  rights  he  may  commaund  my  life. 

Stro.   What  is  a  father  ?    Turne  his  entrailes 
gulfs 
To  swallow  children  when  they  have  begot  them?  ss 
And  whats  a  prince  ?    Had  all  beene  vertuous 

men. 
There  never  had  beene  prince  upon  the  earth, 
And  so  no  subject ;  all  men  had  beene  princes  : 
A  vertuous  man  is  subject  to  no  prince. 
But  to  his  soule  and  honour,  which  are  lawes      60 
That  carrie  fire  and  sword  within  themselves. 
Never  corrupted,  never  out  of  rule; 
What  is  there  in  a  prince  that  his  least  lusts 
Are  valued  at  the  lives  of  other  men  ? 
When  common  faults  in  him  should  prodigies 

be,  65 

And  his  grosse  dotage  rather  loath'd  then  sooth'd. 

y^/p.   How  thicke  and  heavily  my  plagues  de- 
scend. 
Not  giving  my  mazde  powres  a  time  to  speake  ! 


270         tE^lje  Gentleman  tEl0l)er        [actv. 

Poure  more  rebuke  upon  me,  worthie  lord, 

For  I  have  guilt  and  patience  for  them  all :  70 

Yet  know,  deare  sonne,  I  did  forbid  thy  harme ; 

This  gentleman  can  witnes,  whom  I  sent 

With  all  command  of  haste  to  interdict 

This   forward   man   in   mischiefe  not  to  touch 

thee  : 
Did  I  not,  Julio  ?    Utter  nought  but  truth.  75 

'Jul.  All  your  guard  heard,  my  lord,  I  gave 
your  charge 
With  lowd  and  violent  itterations. 
After  all  which  Lord  Medice  cowardly  hurt  him. 

The  Guard.    He  did,  my  princely  Lord. 

Alp.  Beleeve  then,  sonne, 

And  know  me  pierst  as  deeply  with  thy  wounds  :   80 
And  pardon,  vertuous  lady,  that  have  lost 
The  dearest  treasure  proper  to  your  sexe. 
Ay  me,  it  seemes,  by  my  unhappie  meanes  ! 
O  would  to  God  I  could  with  present  cure 
Of  these  unnaturall  wounds,  and  moning  right  85 
Of  this  abused  beautie,  joyne  you  both, 
(As  last  I  left  you)  in  eternall  nuptials. 

V'tn.  My  lord,  I  know  the  malice  of  this  man, 
Not  your-  unkinde  consent,  hath  usde  us  thus. 
And  since  I  make  no  doubt  I  shall  survive  9° 

These  fatall  dangers,  and  your  Grace  is  pleasde 

85   moning  right,  so  Qq.     Mr.  P.  A.  Daniel  suggests  "  moving 
sight. ' ' 


Scene  IV.]         tB\)t  (3Cntitmm  Wi&\)tt  27 1 

To  give  free  course  to  my  unwounded  love, 

T'is  not  this  outward  beauties  ruthfull  losse 

Can  any  thought  discourage  my  desires  : 

And  therefore,  deare  Hfe,  doe  not  wrong  me  so     95 

To  thinke  my  love  the  shadow  of  your  beautie  ; 

I  wooe  your  vertues,  which  as  I  am  sure 

No  accident  can  alter  or  empaire, 

So,  be  you  certaine,  nought  can  change  my  love. 

Alar.   I  know  your  honourable  minde,  my  lord,  100 
And  will  not  do  it  that  unworthie  wrong 
To  let  it  spend  her  forces  in  contending 
(Spite  of  your  sence)  to  love  me  thus  deformed  : 
Love  must  have  outward  objects  to  delight  him, 
Else  his  content  will  be  too  grave  and  sowre,      105 
It  is  inough  for  me,  my  lord,  you  love. 
And  that  my  beauties  sacrifice  redeemde 
My  sad  feare  of  your  slaughter.    You  first  lov'd 

me 
Closely  for  beautie,  which  being  with'red  thus. 
Your  love  must  fade  :   when  the  most  needfull 

rights  '  "o 

Of  Fate  and  Nature  have  dissolv'd  your  life. 
And  that  your  love  must  needs  be  all  in  soule. 
Then  will  we  meete  againe ;  and  then  (deare  love) 
Love  me  againe  ;   for  then  will  beautie  be 
Of  no  respect  with  Loves  eternitie.  "S 

Fin.   Nor  is   it  now  :   I   wooed  your  beautie 

first 


272  ^i)t  Gentleman  Wi&i^tt       [act v. 

But  as  a  lover :   now,  as  a  deare  husband, 
That  title  and  your  vertues  binde  me  ever. 

Mar.   Alas  !   that  title  is  of  little  force 
To  stirre  up  mens  affections ;  when  wives  want  120 
Outward  excitements,  husbands  loves  grow  skant. 

Benivemus.   Assist  me.  Heaven;  and  Art,  give 
me  your  maske  ; 
Open  thou  little  store-house  of  great  Nature, 
Use  an  Elixar  drawne  through  seven  yeares  fire. 
That  like  Medeas  cauldron  can  repaire  125 

The  ugliest  losse  of  living  temp'rature  ; 
And  for  this  princely  paire  of  vertuous  turtles 
Be  lavish  of  thy  pretious  influence. 
Lady,  t'  attone  your  honourable  strife, 
And  take  all  let  from  your  loves  tender  eyes,      130 
Let  me  for  ever  hide  this  staine  of  beauty 
With  this  recureful  maske. 

^Putting  a  mask  on  Margaref  sface.~\ 
Heere  be  it  fix'd 
With  painelesse  operation ;  of  it  selfe, 
(Your  beauty  having  brook'd  three  dales  eclips) 
Like  a  dissolved  clowd  it  shall  fall  off,  135 

And  your  faire  lookes  regaine  their  freshest  raies  : 
So  shall  your  princely  friend,  (if  heaven  consent) 
In  twice  your  sufFerd  date  renue  recure  ; 
Let  me  then  have  the  honor  to  conjoyne 
Your  hands  conformed  to  your  constant  hearts.  140 

122   Hea-ven ;  and  Art,  gi-ve  me.      Query,   Hea'ven  and  Art! 
Gi%>e  me.     See  Notes,  p.  295. 


Scene  IV.]        <B'\)t  (Qtntltmnn  ^^})tt  273 

j^Ip.   Grave  Benevenius,  honorable  Doctor, 
On  whose  most  soveraigne  iEsculapian  hand 
Fame  with  her  richest  miracles  attends, 
Be  fortunate,  as  ever  heeretofore. 
That   we  may  quite  thee  both  with  gold  and 

honour,  i4S 

And,  by  thy  happy  meanes,  have  powre  to  make 
My  Sonne  and  his  much  injur'd  love  amends ; 
Whose  well    proportion'd    choice  we   now  ap- 
plaud. 
And  blesse  all  those  that  ever  further'd  it. 
Where  is  your  discreete  usher,  my  good  lord,     150 
The  speciall  furtherer  of  this  equal!  match  ? 

yul.   Brought  after  by  a  couple  of  your  guard. 

J/p.   Let  him  be  fetch'd,  that   we  may   doe 
him  grace. 

Pogio.   He  fetch  him,  my  lord  ;    ^detaining  'Ju- 
lio.'^ away,  you  must  not  go  :  O  here  he  comes!  '55 

^Enter  Bassiolo  guarded^ 
O  Master  Usher,  I  am  sorie  for  you,  you  must 
presently  be  chopt  in  peeces. 

Bassiolo.  Wo  to  that  wicked  Prince  that  ere 
I  saw  him ! 

Pog.  Come,  come,  I  gull  you,  Master  Usher ; 
you  are  like  to  be  the  Dukes  minion,  man  ;  dee  160 
thinke  I  would  have  beene  seene   in  your  com- 
panie,  and  you  had  beene  out  of  favour  ?    Here 's 
my  friend  Maister  Usher,  my  lord. 


2  74  tirtic  (Gentleman  tdflflier        [actv. 

Jlp.    Give  me  your  hand,  friend;   pardon  us, 
I  pray  ; 
We  much  have  wrong'd  your  w^orth,  as  one  that 

knew  165 

The  fitnesse  of  this  match  above  our  selves. 
Bas.  Sir,    I    did    all    things    for    the  best,  I 
sw^eare  ; 
And  you  must  thinlce  I    w^ould  not  have  beene 

gul'd; 
I  knovv^  what 's  fit,  sir,  as  I  hope  you  know  now : 
Sweete  Vmce,  how  far'st  thou  ?    Be  of  honourd 

cheere.  170 

Las.  "  Vince  "  does  he  call  him  ?    O  foole, 
dost  thou  call 
The  Prince,  Vince,  like  his  equall  ? 

Bas.  O  my  lord,  ahlas  ! 

You  know  not  what  haz  past  twixt  us  two ; 
Here  in  thy  bosome  I  will  lie,  sweete  Vince, 
And  die  if  thou  die,  I  protest  by  Heaven.  175 

Las.   I  know  not  what  this  meanes. 
Jlp.  Nor  I,  my  lord  ; 

But  sure  he  saw  the  fitnes  of  the  match 
With  freer  and  more  noble  eies  then  we. 

Pog.   Why  I  saw  that  as  well  as  he,  my  lord ; 
I  knew  t' was  a  foolish  match  betwixt  you  two;  180 
did  you  not  thinke  so,  my  Lord  Vincentio  ?   Lord 

165-166    tVe    .    .    .    sel-ves.    Q  prints  this  as  prose. 
I'j'^  past.    Query,  passed.  S,  pass'd  betwixt. 


Scene  IV.]        ^\)t  (QtrXtltXttm  Wi&\)tt  275 

uncle,  did  I  not  say  at  first  of  the  Duke  :  "Will 
his  antiquitie  never  leave  his  iniquitie"  ? 

Stro.   Go  to,  too  much  of  this  ;  but  aske  this 
lord. 
If  he  did  like  it. 

Pog.  Who,  my  Lord  Medice  ?         185 

Stro.  Lord  Stinkard,  man,  his  name  is ;  aske 
him  :  "  Lord  Stinkard,  did  you  like  the  match  ?  " 
Say. 

Pog.  My  lord  Stinkard,  did  you  like  the  match 
betwixt  the  Duke  and  my  ladie  Margaret  ?  190 

Medice.   Presumptuous  sicophant,  I  will  have 
thy  life.  [^^  liraws  on  Pogio.'\ 

Alp.  Unworthie  lord,  put   up  :   thirst'st  thou 
more  blood  ? 
Thy  life  is  fitt'st  to  be  call'd  in  question 
For    thy    most    murthrous    cowardise    on    my 

Sonne ; 
Thy  forwardnesse  to  every  cruelty  »95 

Calls  thy  pretended  noblesse  in  suspect. 

Stro.  "Noblesse,"    my   lord?      Set   by  your 
princely  favour 
That  gave  the  lustre  to  his  painted  state. 
Who  ever  view'd  him  but  with  deepe  contempt. 
As  reading  vilenesse  in  his  very  lookes  ?  200 

And  if  he  prove  not  sonne  of  some  base  drudge, 
Trim'd  up  by  Fortune,  being  dispos'd  to  jeast 

193  fitCit.    So  Qq.    Query,  fittest. 


276  tC^lje  Gentleman  tH^ljer       [act  v. 

And  dally  with  your  state,  then  that  good  angell 
That  by  divine  relation  spake  in  me, 
Fore-telling  these  foule  dangers  to  your  sonne,  205 
And  without  notice  brought  this  reverend  man 
To  rescue  him  from  death,  now  failes  my  tongue, 
And  He  confesse  I  doe  him  open  wrong. 

Med.  And  so  thou  doost ;  and  I  returne  all 
note 
Of  infamy  or  basenesse  on  thy  throte  :  210 

Damne  me,  my  lord,  if  I  be  not  a  lord. 

Stro.   My  Liege,  with  all  desert  even  now  you 
said 
His  life  was  duely  forfet  for  the  death 
Which    in  these   barbarous  wounds  he  sought 

your  Sonne  ; 
Vouchsafe  me  then  his  life,  in  my  friends  right,  21 5 
For  many  waies  I  know  he  merits  death  ; 
Which  (if  you  grant)  will  instantly  appeare, 
And  that,  I  feele,  with  some  rare  miracle. 

Alp.   His  life  is  thine.  Lord  Strozza ;  give  him 
death. 

Med.   What,  my  lord,  220 

Will  your  Grace  cast  away  an  innocent  life? 

Stro.   Villaine,  thou  liest,  thou  guiltie  art   of 
death 
A  hundred  waies,  which  now  He  execute. 

Med.   Recall  your  word,  my  lord. 

^^P'  Not  for  the  world. 


Scene  IV.]         ^\)t  i^mtltmnXX  WiS\)tt  277 

Stro.   O  my  deare  Liege,  but  that  my  spirit 
prophetike  225 

Hath  inward  feeling  if  such  sinnes  in  him, 
As  aske  the  forfait  of  his  life  and  soule, 
I  would,  before  I  tooke  his  life,  give  leave 
To  his  confession  and  his  penitence : 
O,  he  would  tell  you  most  notorious  wonders     230 
Of  his  most  impious  state  ;  but  life  and  soule 
Must  suffer  for  it  in  him,  and  my  hand 
Forbidden  is  from  heaven  to  let  him  live 
Till  by  confession  he  may  have  forgivenesse. 
Die  therefore,  monster.  235 

Fin.   O,  be  not  so  uncharitable,  sweete  friend. 
Let   him  confesse  his  sinnes,  and  aske  heaven 
pardon. 

Stro.   He  must  not,  princely  friend  ;  it  is  hea- 
vens justice 
To  plague  his  life  and  soule,  and  heer  's  heavens 
justice.  [He  drazvs.'] 

Med.   O  save  my  life,  my  lord. 

Las.  Hold,  good  Lord  Strozza.  240 

Let  him  confesse  the  sinnes  that  heaven  hath 

told  you. 
And  aske  forgivenesse. 

Med.  Let  me,  good  my  lord. 

And  He  confesse  what  you  accuse  me  of. 
Wonders,  indeede,  and  full  of  damn'd  deserts. 

Stro.   I  know  it,  and  I  must  not  let  thee  live  245 
To  aske  forgivenesse. 


278  tE^^e  (Srntleman  ttt0l)er       [actv. 

Jlp.  But  you  shall,  my  lord, 

Or  I  will  take  his  life  out  of  your  hand. 

Stro.  A  little  then  I  am  content,  my  Liege : 
Is  thy  name  Medice  ? 

Med.  No,  my  noble  lord. 

My  true  name  is  Mendice. 

Stro.  "  Mendice  "  ?    See  250 

At  first  a  mighty  scandall  done  to  honour. 
Of  what  countrie  art  thou  ? 

Med.  Of  no  country,  I ; 

But  borne  upon  the  seas,  my  mother  passing 
Twixt  Zant  and  Venice. 

Stro.  Where  wert  thou  christned  ? 

Med.  I  was  never  christned,ass 

But,  being  brought  up  with  beggars,  call'd  Men- 
dice. 

Jlp.  Strange  and  unspeakeable  ! 

Stro.  How  cam'st  thou  then 

To  beare  that  port  thou  didst,  entring  this  court  ? 

Med.   My  lord,  when  I  was  young,  being  able 
limb'd, 
A  captaine  of  the  gipsies  entertain'd  me,  260 

And  many  yeares  I  liv'd  a  loose  life  with  them  ; 
At  last  I  was  so  favor'd  that  they  made  me 
The  King  of  Gipsies  ;  and  being  told   my  for- 
tune 
By  an  old  sorceresse,  that  I  should  be  great 
In  some  great  princes  love,  I  tooke  the  treasure  265 


Scene  IV.]        ^}^t  Smtltm^XX  ^S\)tr  2jg 

Which  all  our  company  of  gipsies  had 
In  many  yeares,  by  severall  stealths,  collected, 
And  leaving  them  in  warres,  I  liv'd  abroad 
With  no  lesse   shew   then  now  :  and  my    last 

wrong 
I  did  to  noblesse  was  in  this  high  court.  ^7© 

Jlp.  Never  was  heard  so  strange  a  counterfet. 
Stro.   Didst  thou  not  cause  me  to  be  shot  in 

hunting? 
Med.   I  did,  my  lord,  for  which,   for  heavens 

love,  pardon. 
Stro.   Now  let  him  live,  my  lord;  his  bloods 
least  drop 
Would  staine  your  court  more  then  the  sea  could 

cleanse  :  275 

His  soule  's  too  foule  to  expiate  with  death. 
Jlp.   Hence  then  ;  be  ever  banish'd  from  my 
rule, 
And  live  a  monster,  loath'd  of  all  the  world. 

Pog.   He   get    boyes  and  baite  him  out  a'th 

court,  my  lord.  *^° 

Jlp.   Doe  so,  I  pray  thee,  rid  me  of  his  sight. 

Pog.  Come  on,  my  Lord  Stinckerd,  He  play 

"  Fox,  Fox,  come  out  of  thy  hole,"  with  you, 

i  faith. 

Med.   He  runne  and  hide  me  from  the  sight 
of  heaven.  *^5 


28o  tIPlje  Gentleman  tasiljer       [actv. 

Pog.   Fox,  Fox,  goe  out  of  thy  hole ;  a  two 
leg'd  fox,  a  two  leg'd  fox  ! 

Exit  \_Pogio'\  with  pages  beating  Medice. 
Ben.  Never  was  such  an  accident  disclosde. 
Alp.  Let  us  forget  it,  honourable  friends. 
And  satisfie  all  wrongs  with  my  sonnes  right,  290 
In  solemne  manage  of  his  love  and  him. 

Vin.  I  humbly  thanke  your  Highnesse :  hon- 
or'd  Doctor, 
The  balsome  you  infusde  into  my  wounds 
Hath  easde   me   much,  and    given  me   sodaine 

strength 
Enough  t'  assure  all  danger  is  exempt  295 

That  any  way  may  let  the  generall  joy 
My  princely  father  speakes  of  in  our  nuptialls. 
Alp.  Which,  my  deere  sonne,  shall  with  thy 
full  recure 
Be  celebrate  in  greater  majesty 
Than  ever  grac'd  our  greatest  ancestrie.  300 

Then  take  thy  love,  which  heaven  with  all  joyes 

blesse, 
And  make  yee  both  mirrors  of  happinesse. 


F1NI5 


Bott^  on  Ci^e  (Gentleman  a^si^er 

146.  Pogio  :  the  clown  of  the  play.  His  buflFoonery  is  precisely 
of  the  same  type  as  that  of  Sir  Giles  Goosecap  in  the  play  of  that 
name,  an  argument  so  far  unnoticed  for  Chapman's  authorship  of 
that  play.  In  the  evolution  of  English  comedy  Pogio  is  a  link  with 
the  past,  corresponding  to  the  buffooning  vice  of  early  times. 

148,  28.  brittle  as  a  beetle  :  a  mock  proverb  coined  by 
Pogio.  A  beetle,  i.  e.,  a  paving-ram,  was  proverbially  slow.  In 
Withals'  Dictionary,  1634,  p.  555,  "  Celerius  Elephant!  pariunt " 
is  rendered  '*  quick  as  a  beetle." 

148,  30.  "wehie"  .  .  .  "tihi":  the  feeble  joke  consists 
in  Pogio's  misuse  of  the  onomatopoeic  words  representing  a  human 
laugh  and  the  neigh  of  a  horse.  A  bit  of  doggerel  gives  the  proper 
use  : 

But  when  the  hobby-horse  did  wihy. 
Then  all  the  wenches  gave  a  tihi. 

(Nares,  Glossary,  sub  "Tihi.") 

148,  31.  Hysteron  Proteron  :  a  Greek  term  for  the  figure 
of  speech  in  which  the  word  that  should  come  last  is  put  first. 
Strozza  gives  Pogio  the  name  because  he  has  just  put  the  cart  before 
the  horse.    Cf.  "  heeles  about  my  hose,"  i,  i,  57-58. 

148,  34.  late  honourd  tnistresse :  the  lady  whom  he  has 

lately  begun  to  honour. 

150,  66.  daring  .  .  .  prey:  frightening  the  prey  on  which 
they  swoop  down.  "  Dare  "  and  "  stoop  "  are  technical  terms  in 
falconry. 

I50>  ^7-  hare  or  hinde:  Chapman  may  have  had  in  mind 
the  advice  Venus  gave  Adonis  [f^enus  and  Adonis,  673-8)  j  but  he 
has  not  imitated  the  diction  of  that  passage. 

150,  68.  Tosst  .  .  .  harmonie:  driven  about  as  a  melody 
or  theme  is  in  a  fugue.  The  baying  of  the  dogs  is  the  harmony 
of  the  chase.     Cf.  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  iv,  i,  1 10-130. 


282  j^ote0 

152,  103.  who  :  the  antecedent  is  not  "  choice,"  as  it  at  first 
appears,  but  "servant  "  in  the  preceding  line. 

152,  104.   are  to  begin  :  are  yet  to  begin,  have  not  begun. 

152,  118.  fustian  .  .  .  buckram:  terms  used  to  express 
Strozza's  contempt  for  Medice  whom  he  suspects  of  being  an  im- 
postor.    Fustian  and  buckram  are  cheap  stuffs. 

152,  120.  parcell  .  ,  .  stuffe  :  Vincentio  carries  on  the 
dry-goods  figure,  calling  Medice  a  bale  of  goods  as  yet  "  uncon- 
strued,"  /.  e.,  unjudged,  unvalued. 

153,  12.8.  beg  .  .  .  liverie  :  use  his  livery  as  a  license  to 
beg  by,  since  wearing  it  they  could  not  be  arrested  as  masterless  men. 
Compare  the  account  of  the  shifts  to  which  D' Olive's  followers 
had  resort.  [Monsieur  D'  Oli-ve,  iii,  ii,  ed.  Pearson,  vol.  I,  p.  228.) 

153,  132.  noble  COUnterfet  :  counterfeit  of  nobility,  im- 
postor pretending  to  be  a  lord. 

IS4»   164.    hammer.   Cf.   Glossary. 

154,  172.  hunting  .  .  .  best :  our  sport  is  over,  we  have 
seen  the  best  of  it  before  it  has  begun. 

I5S>  194-  care  not  to  proclaime  :  do  not  mind  pro- 
claiming. 

156,  212.    Padua.     See  note  on  Al  Fooks,  i,  i,  316. 

schoolde  it :  studied. 

156,  214.  Curculio  :  literally  corn-worm,  a  hungry  parasite 
in  the  comedy  of  Plautus  bearing  that  name. 

157,  219-220.  take  up  .  .  .  heels  :  trip  up  some  of  your 
honours. 

157,  228-230.  Date  viam  .  .  .  genu :  a  quotation  from 

the  Curculio  of  Plautus,  11,  iii. 

158,  234.  upon  repletion  :  after  a  full  meal. 

158,  235-236.  ventred  .  .  .  neate:  dared  to  eat  the  com- 
mons of  the  three  scholars,  /.  e. ,  the  portions  assigned  in  the  com- 
mon dining-hall,  and  yet  played  this  part  completely  in  character. 
As  the  part  is  that  of  a  hungry  parasite,  to  play  it  well  after  a  full 
meal  proved  Sarpego's  mimetic  talent. 

159,  253-254.  what,  thinke  you  .  .  .  attire:    with 

this  speech  Alphonso  beckons  to  his  servants  to  array  Medice  in  a 
garb  fitting  the  part  of  Sylvanus  which  he  is  to  play. 

159,  258.  make  us  ready:  dress  ourselves. 


0OttS  283 

159,  262-264.  To  none  but  you  .  .  .  my  lords  :  In  the 

Quartos  these  speeches  are  wrongly  assigned.  Medice  has  Vincentio's 
and  Vincentio  Medice' s.  There  can  be  no  reason  why  Vincentio  and 
Strozza  should  quarrel,  Vincentio  appeal  to  Medice,  and  Medice 
play  peacemaker.  Such  a  disposition  of  the  speeches  is  in  fact  quite 
out  of  keeping  with  the  situation.  I  take  it  that  Medice  jostles 
Strozza  who  turns  sharply  on  him  with  "  Stand-by  j  y'  are  trouble- 
some." Medice  then  appeals  to  the  Prince,  who,  not  wishing  an 
open  quarrel  with  his  father's  favourite,  returns  the  soft  answer  : 
"  Not  unto  me."  Medice  encouraged  by  this  speech  ruffles  up  to 
Strozza,  and  Vincentio  begs  them  to  keep  the  peace.  The  two 
speeches  of  Vincentio  in  11.  263  and  264  might  be  assigned  to  Al- 
phonso,  but  then  it  would  be  more  difficult  to  explain  how  the 
mistake  arose.  I  imagine  that  the  names  of  Medice  and  Vincentio, 
standing  in  immediate  proximity  to  each  other,  were  simply  trans- 
posed either  by  a  transcriber  or  by  the  printer. 

161,  5.  at  large  :  fully. 

161,  8.  chambers  hung:  /.  e.,  with  arras. 

162,  24.  y'  are  overshot  :  you  have  gone  too  far,  done 
wrong. 

162,  28.  gives  it  out  in  wagers:  makes  bets.  It  was 
a  not  uncommon  practice  in  Chapman's  day  for  an  amateur  to  play 
a  part  at  a  theatre  for  a  wager.  "  He  should  have  played  Jeronimo 
with  a  shoemaker  for  a  wager."  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle, 
Induction  (Mermaid  ed.  p.  386). 

164,  53.  both  your  choice  commands  :  you  may  choose 
to  remain  a  lady  or  become  a  princess. 

164,  56.  I,  faire  nimph.  This  speech  would  seem  naturally 
to  belong  to  the  Enchanter,  but  it  is,  I  believe,  better  not  to  alter 
the  text,  and  to  regard  it  as  an  interruption  by  Vincentio  containing 
a  scarcely  veiled  sneer  at  Medice. 

164,  66-67.  speake  .  .  .  mend  :  speak  in  such  a  way 
that  you  will  never  be  able  to  better  it ;  a  threat  against  the  Prince 
and  Strozza. 

166,  95.  like  the  English  .  .  .  George  :  like  St. 
George,  the  "  Signe  "  (/.  e.,  watch-word)  of  England.  Cf.  "  Saint 
George  of  mery  England,  the  signe  of  victoree. ' '  (  Faerie  ^eene, 
I,  X,  61.) 


284  ^otts 

166,  100.  for  soile  :  a  technical  expression  in  venery.  A  boar 
was  said  to  "  take  soil  "  when  he  plunged  into  a  swamp  or  stream, 
where  he  stood  at  bay. 

166,  107.  the  shadow  :  the  apparition  of  Margaret. 

166,  113.  Th' intent  .  .  .  relies:  the  reason  for  bind- 
ing and  bringing  him  hither  depends  upon  their  report,  ;'.  e.,  their 
report  of  the  event  to  you. 

167,  130.  made  .  ,  .  this  :  made  this  a  matter  of  difficulty, 
or  seemed  surprised  at  this. 

170,  172-173.  two  inward  .  .  ,  gudgeons:  two  in- 
ternal, or  mental  characteristics  which  will  swallow  any  bait.  For 
the  phrase  cf.  y^I  Fooles,  in,  i,  94,  and  Monsieur  D^  Oli-ve,  v,  ii 
(ed.  Pearson,  p.  237). 

170,  177.  waft  .  .  .  favours:  wave,  beckon,  to  him  from 
a  distance  with  your  hat  and  show  him  other  favours. 

171,4.  (In  loving  others);  by  reason  of  her  love  for 
another. 

171,  7-8.  O,  tisthat  .  .  .  in  me.  In  Sir  Gyles  Goosecappe, 
a  play  which  in  many  ways  closely  resembles  The  Gentleman  Usher, 
there  is  a  reference  to  a  certain  Ladie  Furnifall,  who  "  is  never  in 
any  sociable  veine  till  she  be  typsie,  for  in  her  sobrietie  she  is  mad  and 
feares  [frightens]  my  good  little  old  Lord  "  (ni).  From  the  way 
in  which  this  reference  is  introduced  the  reader  expects  to  see 
Lady  Furnifall  in  this  "  drinking  humour  "  at  the  banquet  in  her 
lord's  house  (iv,  ii).  But  she  does  not  appear  there,  nor  is  her 
name  to  be  found  in  the  list  oi  dramatis  personae.  Now,  according 
to  the  entry  in  Stationers'  Register  Sir  Gyles  was  licensed  for  pub- 
lication ' '  provided  that  it  be  printed  according  to  the  copy  whereat 
Mr.  Wilson's  hand  is  at."  This  entry  certainly  suggests  that  the 
acted  play  had  been  revised  and  certain  passages  expunged. 

Mr.  Fleay  {Biographical  Chronicle,  11,  322)  holds  that  this  revision 
was  due  to  the  personal  satire  contained  in  the  play  :  "  Goosecap, 
Rudesby,  Foulweather,  Tales,  and  Kingcob  are  certainly  personal 
caricatures.  "  Possibly  some  scene  of  drunken  buffoonery  in  which 
a  well-known  lady  of  the  court  appeared  under  a  thin  disguise  once 
existed  in  Sir  Gyles,  and  was  struck  out  by  the  reviser.  Chapman's 
Tragedy  of  Byron  is  known  to  have  contained  a  scene  in  which 
the  then  living  Queen  of  France  boxed  the  ears  of  her  husband's 


jliote0  285 


mistress  ;  but  readers  will  search  in  vain  for  this  scene  in  the 
printed  play.  It  seems  to  me  quite  likely  that  Chapman  lifted  the 
character  of  Lady  Furnifall  and  the  scenes  in  which  she  formerly 
appeared  from  Sir  Gy/es.  Re-christening  the  lady  and  shifting  the 
scene  to  Italy  to  avoid  offence,  he  introduced  them  into  TAe  Gen- 
tleman Usher,  It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  he  did  so.  They  doubt- 
less evoked  Homeric  laughter  at  the  time,  but  they  remain  an  in- 
delible blot  upon  his  noblest  romantic  comedy. 

172,  2Z.  make  you  heart-burnd  :  give  you  the  heart- 
burn. 

172,  23.  plide  this  geere  :  took  to  this  business,  i.  e.,  of 
drinking. 

173,  34.   well  seene  :   well  versed,  skilled. 

173,  36.  wind  .  .  .  angry:  she  must  have  the  best  of  every- 
thing or  she  '11  be  angry.  An  old  saying  runs  :  "  When  the  wind  's 
in  the  west,  then  'tis  at  the  very  best."  (Hazlitt's  English  Pro- 
verbs, p.  464.) 

174,  51.  huddle  and  kettle:  "huddle"  (see  Glossary) 
refers  to  Corteza's  broken  speech  ;  "kettle"  (cf.  "  fine  kettle," 
"kettle  offish")  to  her  behaviour. 

175,  73.  new-made  .  .  .  night:  the  lady  who  has  been 
made  his  Duchess  for  this  night. 

175,  82.  Sir  Giles  Goosecap:  the  leading  figure  in  the 
comic  portion  of  the  play  by  that  name  probably  acted  at  Blackfriars 
ca.  1602.  He  is  "  of  mere  necessitie  an  asse  "  ;  hence  the  propriety 
of  applying  his  name  to  the  servant. 

176,  94.  to  the  faire  .  .  .  place: 

176,  97.  you  right  .  .  ,  ease:  to  return  your  courtesy  and 
for  my  own  convenience. 

177,  104-105.  Or  else  .  .  .  badly  done:  the  first  symp- 
tom of  the  self-complacency  which  the  Prince's  flattery  is  later  to 
blow  up  to  such  height  of  folly. 

179,  147-148.  plucke  .  .  .  eares  :  a  common  phrase  for 
stripping  a  servant  of  his  livery,  and  so  discharging  him. 

180.  man  bugge  and  a  woman :  these  are,  of  course,  the 
pages  who  were  practising  their  songs  in  i,  ii,  22. 

182,  189.  I  scarce  .  .  .  height:  I  would  hardly  have  dared 
to  press  on  to  the  height  I  now  occupy,  ;.  e. ,  the  chair  of  state. 


286  ^otta 

182,  191.    Sound,  consort :  Play  up,  musicians. 

182,  195.  Whose  moving  .  .  .  needes:  Dr.  Bradley 
suggests  that  "moving"  is  here  a  gerund  governing  "silence." 
The  sense  of  the  passage  then  would  be  :  Beauty's  appeal  for  silence 
is  effectual  by  its  own  power  ;  it  needs  no  herald  to  proclaim  silence. 
The  Quarto  reading  moning  is  an  instance  of  the  common  misprint 
of  n  for  u  or  v. 

182,  Enter  SarpegO.  The  musical  show  to  which  this 
character  acts  as  prologue  makes  rather  poor  reading  and  certainly 
impedes  the  progress  of  the  play.  It  must  be  remembered,  however, 
that  the  play  was  probably  performed  by  boys,  and  that  most  of  the 
plays  performed  by  companies  of  children  contained  a  large  amount 
of  singing  and  dancing.  The  songs  and  dances  no  doubt  gave  life  and 
charm  to  what  seems  dull  enough  at  present.  Jonson,  the  great  master 
of  the  masque,  commended  Chapman  as  one  of  the  few  poets  who 
was  proficient  in  this  art.  We  have  but  one  masque  (  The  Masque 
of  the  Middle  Temple)  of  Chapman's  authorship  remaining  ;  but 
the  entertainment  in  Act  i  and  this  scene  in  Act  11  of  The  Gentle- 
man Usher  might  be  regarded  respectively  as  the  masque  and  anti- 
masque  which  went  to  make  up  a  complete  performance  of  this 
kind. 

183,  ^^6.  a  hall,  a  hall  :  an  exclamation  used  to  make  room 
in  a  crowded  apartment,  particularly  at  the  beginning  of  a  dance  or 
show. 

184,  230.  moone  .  .  .  bushes:  according  to  an  old  supersti- 
tion the  man  in  the  moon  is  the  Jew  who  broke  the  Sabbath  ( Num- 
bers, XV,  32,  seq.')  with  his  bundle  of  sticks.  Dante,  following 
another  tradition,  represents  him  as  Cain  with  a  fagot  of  thorns 
{^Inferno,  XX,   I  26). 

185,251.  rush  rufHe  .  .  .  ten :  to  make  the  despised  rush 
flaunt  it  in  heroic  verse,  decasyllabics. 

185,  ^53-  crie  mercie  :  Vincentio  ironically  begs  pardon  for 
allowing  his  heels  to  rest  on  the  about  to  be  lauded  rushes. 

185,    255-256.    odde    battaile  .  .  .  mice.     J^ide  the 

Batrachomyomachia,  a  mock-heroic  poem,   formerly   attributed  to 
Homer,  and  translated  by  Chapman  ca.  1624. 

185,  259-260.  gentle  amorous  .  .  .  sweetly  swims. 
The  passage  has  a  curious  resemblance  to  two  famous  lines  of  Milton 


j^OtCflf  287 

(Paradise  Lost,iv,  310-11)  which  Landor  called,  "the  richest 
jewel  that  poetry  ever  wort."  Landor,  Works  (1876),  iv,  445. 
Milton's  habit  of  plundering  the  dramatists  is  so  well  known  that 
one  need  not  hesitate  to  suggest,  at  least,  this  passage  as  his  original. 

185,  2.66.    bites   .   .    .   tongue  :  jeers  at  them. 

186,  278.  disburthen  them  :  unload  them  of  the  brooms 
and  rushes. 

186,  286.  her  female  friend:  This  can  only  be  the  syl- 
van. I  suspect  a  text  corruption,  yiwa/e  being  suggested  by  the 
word  in  1.  290. 

i88,  318.  how  conceit  .  .  .  mother :  what  think  you  of 
the  young  lady  whom  my  father  has  chosen  to  be  my  stepmother. 

188,  320.  bugs  'words  :  words  of  a  monster,  terrible  words. 
Vincentio  does  not  wish  Cynanche  to  arouse  Alphonso's  suspicions. 

189.  after  the  song:  /.  e.,  after  the  song  and  dance  which 
in  the  Elizabethan  theatre  filled  up  the  time  between  the  acts. 

It  is,  perhaps,  worth  noting  that  this  short  scene  between  Medice 
and  his  servant,  although  not  in  any  way  divided  from  what  follows  in 
the  Quarto,  must,  nevertheless,  take  place  on  the  day  preceding  the 
events  of  the  rest  of  Act  in.  Medice  says  (1.  6)  :  "  to-morrow, 
then,  the  Duke  intends  to  hunt"  ;  but  (iii,  ii,  215)  Pogio  says: 
"your  father  is  going  a  hunting"  ;  and  (in,  ii,  293)  Alphonso 
says:  "  come  to  our  hunting."  From  the  entrance  of  Vincentio 
and  Bassiolo  (m,  ii)  the  action  is  continuous  and  takes  place  on  the 
morning  after  the  entertainments  at  Lasso's  house  in  Acts  i  and  11. 
It  seems  strange  that  a  little  scene  of  a  dozen  lines  dealing  with 
events  of  the  previous  evening  should  find  this  place  in  Act  in. 

It  will  be  noticed,  however,  that  this  scene  is  a  mere  enlarge- 
ment of  the  brief  colloquy  between  Medice  and  the  First  Huntsman 
(ill,  ii,  313-314).  If  this  scene  had  been  written  first  there  would 
be  no  need  whatever  for  the  whispered  colloquy  of  Medice  with  the 
Huntsman,  nor  for  the  latter' s  promise,  since  the  murder  would 
have  already  been  arranged.  If,  on  the  contrary,  the  brief  colloquy 
was  first  written,  it  is  easy  to  see  how  a  performance  would  bring 
out  the  inadequacy  of  the  preparation  for  the  plot  against  Strozza. 
A  good  part  of  Acts  iv  and  v  is  taken  up  with  Strozza's  wounding 
and  recovery,  for  which  the  only  cause  discoverable  in  the  play 
would  have  been  the  words  of  the  Huntsman  — easily  missed  by  all 


288  i^otesf 

but  the  most  attentive  listener  of  the  audience  —  "I  warrant  you, 
my  lord,  he  shall  not  scape  me."  It  is  plain,  I  think,  that  this 
opening  scene  was  written  later  in  order  to  afford  the  clear  exposition 
which  the  Elizabethan  audience  insisted  on.  The  two  lines  (in,  ii, 
313-314)  were  doubtless  omitted  in  subsequent  performances,  but 
occurring  in  the  MS.  submitted  to  the  printer,  found  their  present 
place.  It  is  a  question,  I  think,  whether  Chapman  himself  wrote 
the  present  opening  of  Act  iii.  Certainly  it  is  not  beyond  the 
powers  of  any  theatre-hack. 

189,  5.    in  compasse   .    .    .    life  :  in  the  power  of  my  life. 

190,  12-  that  even  as  .  .  .  jacke:  Koeppel  points  out  that 
this  mechanical  simile  has  been  seriously  noted  as  one  of  the  com- 
monplaces characteristic  of  Massinger.  {Eng/iscAe  Studien,  ix,  219, 
223,  225.)  Possibly  the  discovery  will  be  made  some  day  that  in 
this  scene  Massinger,  whUe  a  student  at  Oxford,  lent  his  aid  to  the 
veteran  Chapman. 

191,  37.  brave  beasts  .  .  .  armes:  the  allusion  is  to  the 
beasts,  brave  in  colours,  that  served  as  "  supporters  "  to  many  noble 
coats-of-arms. 

192,57-58.  doe  not  .  .  .  selfe  :  think  that  others  as  well 
as  you  are  men  of  unusual  spirit. 

193,  61-62.  respect  .  .  .  friendship:  consideration  of 
the  common  form  of  friendship. 

194,  78.     godly  gudgeons;    goodly  (;.  e.,  proper)  baits. 

194,  84.     how  are  you  :   '.  e.,  how  are  you  gulled  ? 

195,  100.  figure  .  .  .  common  :  a  mode  of  speech  com- 
mon in  the  mouths  of  flatterers. 

195,  1 10.  tis  now  in  use  :  a  passage  in  Haywood's  Hier- 
archy of  the  Blessea  Angels,  1635  (Book  iv),  mentions  the  Eliza- 
bethan fashion  of  ' '  curtaling  ' '  names. 

"•  Mellifluous  Shakespeare,  whose  inchanting  Quill 
Commanded  Mirth  or  Passion,  was  but  (Pill. 
And  famous  Johnson,  though  his  learned  Pen 
Be  apt  in  Castaly,  is  still  but  Ben, 

1  for  my  part 
(Thinke  others  what  they  may)  accept  that  heart 
Which  courts  my  love  in  most  familiar  phrase  ; 


1  hold  he  loves  me  best  that  calls  me  Tot 
Compare  also  Re-venge  of  Sussy,  i,  i,  260-261. 


i^otes  289 

200,  194.     Hybla  :  a  district  in  Sicily  famous  for  its  honey. 

200,  195.  Meander.  Ovid,  Heroides,  VII,  I,  2,  speaks  of 
the  white  swan  singing  at  the  fords  of  Meander,  a  river  in  Asia 
Minor. 

202,  241.  bodie  of  a  George:  a  body  as  strong  as  St. 
George's. 

203,  250.    set  forth    .   .    .   gere  :  take  this  business  in  hand. 
203,  251.    be   naughts.    The   "i"    in   naughts  is    possibly 

superfluous.  The  phrase  "be  naught"  is  familiar  in  Elizabethan 
English,  and  is  a  humorous  imprecation.  It  had  at  times,  however, 
a  coarse  secondary  meaning  (see  Malone's  note  on  ^s  Tou  Like  It, 
I,  i,  39,andcf.  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  in,  p.  33  3  ;  ed.  of  1893). 
The  Neiv  English  Dictionary  cites  this  passage  under  "naught," 
r.  «.,  as  =  keep  quiet,  withdrawn. 

203,  269.    put  me  to  it :  force  me  to  yield  to  your  courtship. 

205,301.  in  full  .  .  .  faculties  :  by  the  unanimous  con- 
sent of  all  my  powers  of  mind. 

205,  311.    suspect  my  being:  suspect  my  whereabouts. 

206,315-316.  till  .  .  .  absence :  till  the  hunting  that  we 
intend  is  ended  by  my  leaving  the  field. 

207,  335.  Is  the  man  madde:  cf.  Julia's  reprimand  to 
Lucetta  for  bringing  her  a  love-letter  (  Tivo  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 
1,  ii,  41-47).  Chapman  may  have  derived  a  hint  from  Shake- 
speare, but  in  this  scene  he  has  fairly  surpassed  him. 

207, 345-346.  was  there  .  .  .  discretion:  was  a  woman 
ever  so  mistaken  in  regard  to  a  supposedly  wise  man's  discretion  .■' 
Cf.  Shirley,  Hyde  Park,  i,  ii :  "  How  are  poor  women  overseen  !  " 

208,361.  dote  ,  .  .  direction  :  there  is  a  double  meaning 
in  this  speech.  It  may  mean  "  I  am  so  foolishly  apt  to  follow  your 
direction,"  or  "  I  am  so  foolishly  fond  of  you."  Bassiolo  naturally 
takes  it  in  the  second  sense.    Margaret's  next  speech  is  an  aside. 

209,  379-380.  fretted  .  ,  .  liver  :  vexed  her  to  the  heart. 
The  liver  was  formerly  supposed  to  be  the  seat  of  the  passions. 

210,  402.  He  be  your  secretorie  :  this  scene  is  at  once  a 
working  over  of  Sir  Gyles  Goosecappe,  iv,  i,  and  an  immense  im- 
provement upon  it. 

211,405.  Is  heere  .  .  .  answer:  is  this  letter  from  the 
Prince  not  worth  your  answering  ? 


290  j^OtCg 

211,  419.    Which:  the  antecedent  is  "  muse  "  not  "  braine." 

212,  426,  429,  435.  "  endeare,"  "  condole,"  "  mo- 
dell  "  :  all  comparatively  new  words  in  Chapman's  day.  The  first 
quotations  for  ' '  endeare  ' '  and  ' '  condole  ' '  in  the  New  English 
Dictionary  are  1500  and  1588  respectively. 

212,  447-448.  your  exceptions  .  .  .  collaterally: 
your  objections  are  not  well  founded. 

213,469.  your  lordships,  etc.  The  letter  of  Bassiolo  is 
a  deliberate  piece  of  high-flown  nonsense. 

2iS^  53°  you  may  speede:  you  may  have  bad  luck. 
"  Speede  "  seems  to  be  used  here  as  in  The  Ball,  iv,  i,  in  an  iron- 
ical or  negative  sense. 

217,  7.    a  forked  shaft  :  a  barbed  arrow. 

219,  39-40-  Rise  Furies  .  .  .  conquer:  Strozza  calls 
on  the  Furies,  as  goddesses  of  Madness,  to  conquer  his  terrible 
suffering  ("  furie  of  my  bane  ")  by  driving  him  mad. 

219,  41-42.  That  hath  .  .  .  fate:  madness,  which  to 
human  sense  seems  blind,  sets  free,  with  present  fate,  the  soul  from 
hope  and  fear. 

220,  57.  th'  Alcmenean  conquerour :  Hercules,  son  of 
Alcmene. 

220,  60.  scarcely  beaten  .  .  .  cries  :  cries  are  scarcely 
fitting  for  beaten  children. 

220,  67-68.  whose  actions  .  .  .  respect:  the  soul's 
actions,  once  conceived  and  executed,  "simply"  (/  e.,  without 
admixture  of  the  physical)  put  the  weaknesses  of  the  body  out  of  our 
consideration. 

220,  69.   unmedcinable   .    .    .    breath :   this  balm  of 

spoken  words,  powerless  to  cure. 

220,  73.  lie  breake  aw^ay.  These  words  are  wrung  from 
Strozza  by  a  fresh  spasm  of  pain. 

220,  77.  religious  noblesse :  pious  nobility  of  mind. 
Cynanche  refers  to  Strozza's  vow  (1.  71,  above). 

221,  2.    in  respect  of  mine  :   in  comparison  to  mine. 

222,  15.  Guevara's  Golden  Epistles.  Antonio  de 
Guevaras  was  a  Spanish  writer  of  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. His  EpisColas  Familiares,  were  translated  into  English  in 
1574;  and  a  second   translation  under  the   title  of  Golden  Epistles 


0Ott6  291 

by  Fenton  in  1575  became  a  very  popular  book,  in  cultivated  cir- 
cles. Prof.  Koeopel  (^^ueilen  und  ForscAungen,  no.  82,  p.  9)  in- 
clines to  see  in  the  mention  of  this  book  by  such  a  foolish  person 
as  Bassiolo  a  plain  sign  of  its  declining  influence  at  the  time  TAe 
Gentleman  Usher  was  composed.  I  cannot,  however,  accept  this 
view.  Bassiolo  is  exactly  the  man  to  read  the  books  that  his  betters 
were  reading. 

225,  69.    in  his  kinde  :  according  to  its  proper  nature. 

225,  84.  laugh  and  lie  downe  :  the  name  of  a  game  of 
cards,  used  here  with  a  double  meaning. 

226,94.  all  merit  .  .  .  chinks  :  the  chinking  of  his  gold 
rings  bells  in  honour  of  the  highest  merit. 

229,  140.  lawes  .  .  .  common  world  :  a  characteristic 
thought  of  Chapman's.    Cf.  Bussy  D^Ambois,  11,  i,  194-199. 

229,  153-157-  hide  your  face  ...  on  mine.  Com- 
pare the  marriage  ceremonies  in  Hero  and  Leander^  v,  352—358. 

231,  193-194-  your  choice  .  .  .  free:  your  free  choice 
of  action  shall  not  be  hampered  by  your  marriage. 

231,  202.     popular  sects  :   vulgar  opinions. 

232,  214.  Tantalus  pig:  Pogio's  mistake  for  "  Tantony 
pig,"  i.  e.,  St.  Antony's  pig.  Stow  relates  how  the  pigs,  belonging 
to  St.  Antony's  hospital,  roamed  the  streets  of  London  at  the  heels 
of  those  who  fed  them  :  "  Whereupon  was  raised  a  Proverbe,  Suci 
an  one  luil  folloiv  such  an  one,  &  ivhine  as  it  -were  an  Anthonie 
Pig-'^     (Stow,  Sur-vey  oj^  London,   1633,  p.    190.  ) 

233?  17-    Like    the  twins    Hippocrates    reports: 

St.  Augustine  {De  Ci-vitate  Dei,  v,  2)  says  that  Cicero  reports 
Hippocrates  to  have  pronounced  a  pair  of  brothers  twins  from  the 
fact  that  they  both  took  ill  at  the  same  time,  and  that  the  disease 
advanced  and  subsided  simultaneously  in  both  cases.  The  original 
passage  is  wanting  in  the  extant  works  of  Hippocrates,  and  Cicero's 
quotation  is  supposed  to  have  occurred  in  his  lost  book,  De  Fato. 
Chapman  makes  the  same  allusion  in  his  Masque  of  the  Middle 
Temple  (^Works,  vol.  iii,  p.  1 1 6)  and  in  his  poem  on  A  Good 
Woman  {Works,  vol.  11,  p.   1 52). 

234,  21.  his  sweete  ape  :  in  his  introduction  to  Sir  Gyles 
Goosecappe  {Old  Plays,  vol.  3)  Mr.  BuUen  has  pointed  out  that 
this  phrase  occurs  in  that  anonymous  play  : 


292  iliotf0 

Doe  women  bring  no  helpe  of  soule  to  men. 

Why,  friend,  ihey  either  are  men's  soules  themselves. 

Or  prettiest  sweet  apes  of  human  soules. 

Sir  Gyles  Goosecapft,  p.  5J. 

Mr.  Bullen  thinks  that  these  lines  may  have  been  added  to  the 
play  after  the  appearance  of  T/ie  Gentleman  Usher,  or  that  the  un- 
known author  of  Sir  Gyles  may  have  seen  Chapman's  play  in 
manuscript.  It  is  far  more  likely  Chapman  was  simply  borrowing 
from  himself. 

234,  28.  nor  choice  meats:  nor  do  choice  meats  delight 
more  than  one  sense. 

234,  36-37.  armes  .  .  .  gold  :  possibly  a  reminiscence  of 
AH  Fooles,  III,  i,  20-21. 

23s,  48.  In  which  .  .  .  powres  :  by  reason  of  which 
patience  my  mind  extends  her  powers  that  are  incapable  of  suffering. 

235,  62.  a  sort  .  .  .  globes:  a  set  of  balls  of  crystal,  such 
as  were  then  used  for  divination. 

236,  83.   his  reasonable  soule:  his  soul  which  alone  is 

capable  of  reason.  Cynanche  fears  from  the  "  idle  talk  "  of  Strozza 
that  his  mind  is  giving  way,  and  that  this  is  a  sign  of  speedy  death. 

240,  14.  Corteza  search.  Professor  Koeppel  has  pointed 
out  that  an  analogous  scene  to  this  appears  in  Fletcher's  A  Wife 
for  a  Month,  i,  ii. 

241,  25-26.  Madam  .  .  .  Duke:  The  Quartos  assign 
this  speech  to  Lasso.  But  Lasso  is  not  present  at  this  time.  He 
enters  later  after  1.  56. 

242,  53.  hunt  at  view  :  hunt  by  sight  not  by  scent,  a 
phrase  used  when  the  hounds  are  close  upon  their  prey. 

242,  55.    blew  cry  stall :  cf.  note  on  235,  62. 

243,  68.  forge  .  .  .  gloses  :  the  source  of  these  specious 
explanations. 

244,  101-102.    and  you  thinke  .  .  .  betimes:  if  you 

intend  to  make  an  ass  of  me,  you  must  get  up  early 

250,  32.  shay:  the  pronunciation  indicated  by  this  spelling, 
and  the  ejaculation  Gosh  hat  (1.  26),  are  possibly  meant  as  signs 
that  Bassiolo  has  been  fortifying  himself  with  '•  Dutch  courage." 

251,  34.    ruftie  tuftie  WSe  :   rough  and  tumble  fashion. 


^ott&  293 

251,48.  goe  by  :  slink  off.  A  catch-word  from  the  5/>an/iA 
Tragedy,  constantly  repeated  in  later  plays. 

251,  S3-  Belle  piu.  This  is  evidently  the  refrain  of  a  song. 
The  Iterum  cant,  which  follows  in  the  Quarto  is  a  stage-direction, 
bidding  Bassiolo  sing  a  second  time,  probably  the  song  indicated  by 
the  refrain.  Belle  piu. 

252,  57-  Bobadilla:  /.  e.,  Bobadil,  the  braggart  captain  in 
Every  Man  in  His  Humour. 

254,  104.  WO  ho:  the  call  used  by  falconers  to  reclaim  the 
hawk. 

255,  124.    For  wreake  .  .  .  sustaine :  in  revenge  for 

that  exile  from  joy  which  I  endure,  /.  e.,  in  his  loss  of  the  hope  of 
winning  Margaret. 

256,  Enter  AlphonsO,  etc.  According  to  the  stage-direc- 
tion of  the  Quarto  Margaret  should  go  out  with  Vincentio,  but  from 
1.  140  it  is  evident  that  she  is  still  on  the  stage.  I  have  emended 
therefore  to  show  that  she  is  detained  by  her  father. 

258.  Strozza  having  the  arrowhead.  It  is  evident 
that  this  scene  must  take  place  seven  days  later  than  the  third 
scene  of  Act  iv.  But  from  that  scene  the  action  is  apparently 
continuous  through  Act  v,  sc.  i.  The  proper  division  between 
Acts  IV  and  v,  therefore,  would  be  at  the  beginning  of  this  scene. 
Such  a  division  would  allow  a  seven  days'  interval  between  the  acts, 
giving  time  for  Vincentio  to  be  overtaken  on  the  borders  of  the 
Duke's  country,  for  the  news  of  his  supposed  death  to  reach  Mar- 
garet (sc.  iii),  and  finally  for  him  to  be  brought  back  to  court  in  a 
litter  (sc.  iv). 

259,  30-  Cloy'st  .  .  .  him:  dost  not  grow  weary  of  him, 
surfeit  with  his  company. 

259,  36-  superstitious  rite  :  an  eminently  characteristic 
passage.  Chapman  loved  a  paradox.  He  defends  duelling  {Bussy 
D'Amboii,  II,  i)  ;  the  character  of  the  Duke  of  Guise  {Re-venge 
of  Bussy,  II,  i)  ;  private  and  unlicensed  marriage  [Gentleman 
Usher,  IV,  ii)  ;  the  rights  of  a  child  against  a  father  and  of  a  subject 
against  his  prince  {Gentleman  Usher,  v,  iv).'  This  frank  apology 
for  pilgrimages  shows  that  Chapman   had   nothing  of  the  hatred 

I  In  Sir  Gyles  Gcosecappe  (pp.  71,  72)  we  have  a  paradoxical  defence  of 
ladies  painting  to  add  to  tliis  list. 


294  i^Otf0 

of  Papistry  that  appears   in  the  works  of  many  of  his  contem- 
poraries. 
259,  3^-    resignde  to  memorie  :  consigned  to  the  church 

as  a  memorial. 

260,41-42.  ■which  .  .  .  lives:  if  this  patience  were  for- 
gotten after  my  death,  the  example  I  have  set  would  be  lost  to 
posterity. 

261,  78.  Monks-well.  This  name,  and  that  of  5r.  Mark's 
Streete,  v,  iii,  10,  may,  perhaps,  lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  hitherto 
unknown  source  of  this  play. 

263,23  Cleopatra:  thestory  of  Cleopatra's  experiments  to 
discover  the  easiest  mode  of  death  is  told  by  Plutarch  in  his  Life  of 
Antony.  In  speaking  of  the  honour  paid  to  Cleopatra,  Chapman 
possibly  had  in  mind  Chaucer,  who  places  her  story  at  the  head  of 
his  Legend  of  Good  Women  as  one  of  Cupid's  saints. 

263,  32-34.  Adelasia  .  .  .  knife.  There  are  so  many 
mistakes  crowded  into  these  three  lines  as  to  show  that  Chapman  was 
quoting  from  a  book  read  long  since  and  well-nigh  forgotten.  In  the 
first  place,  the  heroine  who  defaced  her  features  was  not  Adelasia, 
the  daughter  of  Otho  III  of  Germany  (concerning  whose  adven- 
tures see  Painter's  Palace  of  Pleasure,  nov.  44),  but  Florinda  (nov. 
53).  Secondly,  the  instrument  used  was  not  a  knife  but  a  stone, 
with  which  she  "foully  defaced  her  face."  Thirdly,  neither  the 
story  of  Adelasia  nor  that  of  Florinda  is  told  by  Pettie,  although,  as 
Professor  Koeppel  has  shown,  both  of  them  are  mentioned  (  ^el- 
Itn  und  Forschungen,  no.  82,  pp.  9,  10).  Lastly,  either  Chapman 
or  the  printer  gives  the  wrong  title  of  the  book.  The  proper 
title  is  A  Pettie  Palace  of  Pettie  His  Pleasure.  This  work  of  George 
Pettie  was  licensed  in  1576,  and  was  so  successful  that  three  edi- 
tions of  it  were  published  in  the  same  year.  Later  editions  were 
issued  in  1580  and  after  the  author's  death  (i  589),  in  1598,  1608, 
and  1613.  As  Professor  Koeppel  has  shown,  Pettie's  style  exhibits 
many  of  the  most  characteristic  traits  of  "  Euphuism  "  three  years 
before  the  publication  of  Euphues.  Painter's  well-known  collection 
of  stories.  The  Palace  of  Pleasure,  a  name  which  was  seized  upon 
for  Pettie's  book  by  the  latter's  publisher,  appeared  in  1567  and 
1568.  I  suggest,  with  some  hesitation,  that  this  unmetrical  and 
unnecessary  line  may  have  been  originally  merely  a  marginal  com- 


i^otes;  295 

ment  which  has  crept  into  the  text  by  an  error  of  the  transcriber  or 
printer. 

265.  7*-  yet.  The  it  of  the  Quarto  is  probably  a  misprint  for 
the^r,  /.  e.,  yet  of  the  MS.  For  the  thought,  cf.  //  King  Henry 
VI,   m,   ii,  391. 

268,  42.  pagan  Nero.  The  justificadon  of  this  epithet 
appears  in  the  next  lines.  It  was  a  commonplace  of  Elizabethan 
poetry  that  the  parent  lived  again  in  his  child  and  his  child's  child- 
ren. Chapman  exaggerates  this  commonplace  into  the  paradox 
that  a  son  is  both  father  and  mother  of  his  father.  Since  Nero 
killed  his  mother,  and  Alphonso  ordered  the  death  of  both  his 
parents  in  his  son,  the  equation  Alphonso  =  Nero  appears  to  have 
some  ground. 

269,54-55.  Turne  .  .  .  begot  them:  Strozza  is  appar- 
ently thinking  of  the  myth  of  Saturn,  who  devoured  his  children. 

269,  56.  what  's  a  prince  :  one  of  the  best-known  passages 
in  Chapman's  work.  The  idea  that  in  the  state  of  nature  all  men 
were  princes  appears  again  in  Bussy  D^Ambois,  n,  i,  198,  "Let 
me  be  King  my  selfe  (as  man  was  made)."  Swinburne  calls  this 
passage  "the  first  direct  protest,  as  far  as  I  know,  against  the 
principle  of  monarchy  to  be  found  in  our  poetical  or  dramatic  liter- 
ature."    (Swinburne,  George  Chapman,  p.  61.) 

270,  85.  unnatural  'wounds  :  because  inflicted  upon  a  son 
by  permission  of  a  father. 

270,  85.  moning  right  :  by  rightly,  duly,  lamenting  the 
loss  of  Margaret's  beauty.  Mr.  Daniel  suggests  the  emendation 
"  moving  sight" ;  Dr.  Bradley  would  read  "moving  right"  in  the 
sense  of  "  setting  right,"  "  restoring  to  its  rights." 

272,  122.  Assist  me  .  .  ,  maske.  I  have  followed  in 
the  punctuation  of  the  text  what  appears  to  be  the  meaning  of  the 
Quarto.  But  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  we  might  read :  ' '  Assist 
me  Heaven  and  Art  !  Give  me  your  maske,"  taking  the  last  words 
of  the  line  as  addressed  either  to  Margaret  or  Cynanche  The 
doctor,  taking  the  mask  in  his  hand,  would  then  turn  to  his  casket, 
and  after  the  lines"  Open  thou  .  .  .  influence"  would  moisten  the 
mask  with  a  drug,  thus  making  it  "  recureful."  Otherwise,  as  the 
text  stands,  we  must  suppose  him  to  appeal  to  Art,  /.  e.,  Medi- 
cine, to  give  him  the  mask,  in  this  case  a  mask  that  he  himself  had 
brought  along  with  other  medical  appliances. 


296  il5ote0 

272,  125.  Medeas  cauldron.  Medea  the  enchantress  had 
a  caldron  which  possessed  the  power  of  restoring  youth  to  those  who 
permitted  themselves  to  be  cut  to  pieces  and  boiled  in  it.  She  thus 
restored  the  youth  of  Aeson. 

272,126.  the  Ugliest  .  .  .  temp'rature:  the  most  dan- 
gerous impairment  of  a  living  creature's  constitution. 

272,  138.  In  twice  .  .  .  recure:  be  cured  in  twice  the 
period  that  you  shall  have  suffered. 

27S)  197-  Set  by  .  .  .  favour:  your  favour  being  set 
aside,  /.  «.,  if  Medice  were  judged  not  as  your  minion,  but  on  his 
own  merits. 

276,  214.    your  Sonne  :  dative  of  interest  after  "  sought." 

277,  244.    damn'd  deserts:  deeds  that  deserve  damnation. 

278,  251.  scandall  .  .  .  honour:  in  that  Mendice  had 
usurped  the  honourable  name  of  Medice. 

278,  254.  Zant  :  Zante  or  Zacynthus,  one  of  the  Ionian 
Isles. 

279,  283.  Fox,  Fox  .  .  .  hole:  an  old  Christmas  game 
mentioned  by  Herrick.  "  Boys  hopped  on  one  leg  and  beat  one 
another  with  gloves  or  pieces  of  leather  tied  at  the  end  of  strings. ' ' 
Grosart,  Complete  Poems  of  Herrick,  v.  2,  p.  37. 


The  place  of  publication  is  London  unless  otherwise  indicated. 

I.    TEXTS 

1605,  4°.  Al  I  FooLEs :  I A  I  Comody,  Presented  at  the  Black  | 
Fryers,  And  lately  before  |  his  Maiestie.  |  Written  by  George  Chap- 
man. I  Printed  for  Thomas  Thorpe.  [For  the  relations  of  extant 
copies  in  the  great  libraries,  see  Note  on  Text.] 

1606,  4°.  The  I  Gentleman  |  Usher.  |  By  |  George  Chap- 
man. I  Printed  by  V.  S.  for  Thomas  Thorppe.  [For  relations  of 
existing  copies  in  the  great  libraries,  see  Note  on  Text.] 

1780,  8°.  A  Select  Collection  OF  Old  Plays  :  The  Second 
Edition,  Corrected  and  Collated  with  the  Old  Copies,  with  Notes, 
Critical  and  Explanatory,  by  Isaac  Reed.  12  vols.  [Volume  iv 
contains  .^11  Fools.] 

181O,  8°.  The  Ancient  British  Drama.  Three  vols.  [Vol- 
ume II  contains  ylll  Fools.  This  collection  was  edited  by  Walter 
Scott.] 

1825,  8°.  A  Select  Collection  of  Old  Plays:  A  New  Edi- 
tion, with  Additional  Notes  and  Corrections,  by  the  late  Isaac  Reed, 
Octavius  Gilchrist,  and  the  Editor  [J.  P.  Collier].  Twelve  vol- 
umes. [Volume  IV  contains  ^11  Fools,  to  which  is  prefixed  a  life  of 
Chapman,  a  list  of  his  plays,  and  the  dedicatory  Sonnet  to  Sir 
Thomas  Walsingham.  The  play  is  accompanied  by  critical  and  ex- 
planatory footnotes.] 

1873,  8°.  The  Comedies  and  Tragedies  of  George  Chap- 
man. Now  first  collected,  with  illustrative  notes  and  a  memoir  of 
the  author.  In  three  volumes.  London,  John  Pearson,  York 
Street,  Covent  Garden.  [Volume  i  contains  -^//  Fools  and  The 
Gentleman  Usher,  together  with  The  Blind  Beggar  of  Alexandria, 
An  Humorous  Day's  Mirth,  and  Monsieur  D' Oli-ve.  The  text 
purports  to  be  an  exact  reproduction  of  the  Quartos  of  1605  and 


298  llBibltograpl)^ 

1 606  of  All  Fools  and  The  Gentleman  Usher,  but  is  not  absolutely 
reliable,  especially  in  the  matter  of  punctuation.  The  dedicatory 
sonnet  is  reproduced  in  this  reprint.] 

1874-5,  8°.  The  Works  of  George  Chapman  :  edited  with 
notes  by  Richard  Heme  Shepherd.  Chatto  and  Windus.  [Vol.  i, 
Plays,  vol.  II,  Poems  and  Minor  Translations,  vol.  iii,  Homer's 
Iliad  and  Odyssey.  An  edition  in  modernised  spelling,  with  occa- 
sional departures  from  the  original  text.  The  notes  are  few  and  of 
little  value.  Mr.  Swinburne's  Essay  on  the  Poetical  and  Dramatic 
Works  of  George  Chapman  is  prefixed  to  vol.  11.] 

1895,  8°.  George  Chapman,  edited  with  an  Introduction  and 
Notes  by  William  Lyon  Phelps.  London :  T.  Fisher  Unwin.  New 
York:  Charies  Scribner's  Sons,  1895.  [This  volume  of  the  Mer- 
maid Series  contains  All  Fools  along  with  the  two  Bussy  and  the 
two  Byron  tragedies.  The  text  is  taken  from  the  reprint  of  1873, 
but  the  spelling  has  been  modernised  and  the  punctuation  altered. 
There  is  a  biographical  and  critical  introduction,  and  a  few  explan- 
atory notes  appear  below  the  text.] 

II.  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  WORKS 

Besides  monographs  and  essays  specially  devoted  to  All  Fools 
and  The  Gentleman  Usher,  this  list  includes  such  general  ivorks 
on  the  drama  and  on  Chapman  and  his  plays  as  are  likely  to  prove 
useful  to  the  general  reader  or  student.  See  also  the  memoirs  and 
critical  matter  in  the  "volumes  listed  under  Texts. 

1 691.  The  Lives  and  Characters  of  the  English  Dra- 
MATicK   Poets.    G.  Langbaine.    Oxford. 

1 69 1.  Athenae  Oxonienses.  Anthony  a  Wood:  vol.  11, 
PP-  S7S-79  (edition  continued  by  P.  Bliss,  18 15).  Short  life  of 
Chapman. 

1808.  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets.  Charles 
Lamb.  No  quotations  from  All  Fools  or  The  Gentleman  Usher  are 
given,  but  Lamb's  comment  on  Chapman's  style  is  noteworthy. 

1818.  Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literature  of  the 
Age  of  Elizabeth.  W.  Hazlitt.  Lecture  iii,  On  Marston,  Chap- 
man, Dekker,  and  Webster. 


IBibltograpl)^  299 


182 1.  The  Retrospective  Review,  vol.  iv  :  Chapman'' $ 
Plays.    The  article  deals  wholly  with  the  tragedies 

1822.  Retrospective  Review,  volume  v.  This  article  is  on 
the  comedies,  All  Fools,  The  Gentleman  Usher,  and  The  JVidoiv'' s 
Tears.  A  further  article  promised  (vol.  v,  p.  332)  on  Chapman's 
joint  plays,  "in  our  next  number,'"  seems  never  to  have  appeared. 

1 84 1.  The  Edinburgh  Review,  April  :  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  and  their  Contemporaries.  This  article  contains  a  brief  note 
on  Chapman. 

1865.  Chapman  in  seinem  Verhaltniss  zu  Shakespeare. 
F.  Bodenstedt.  Shakespeare  yahrbuch,  vol.  I.  Berlin.  A  general 
discussion  of  Chapman's  characteristics  as  a  dramatist,  of  little  real 
value.  Bodenstedt  mentions  an  "  unkritische  und  mangelhafte 
Ausgabe  [of  Chapman]  welche  in  Jahre  1843  erschien."  I  have 
not  been  able  to  identify  this  edition.  No  English  edition  of  Chap- 
man's plays  appeared  in  1843. 

1874.  The  Cornhill  Magazine,  July  :  Chapman  s  Dramatic 
Works.  A  slight  and  worthless  review  of  the  reprint  of  Chapman's 
plays  in  1873. 

1875-  George  Chapman:  A  Critical  Essay.  A.  C.  Swin- 
burne. A  reprint  of  the  Introductory  Essay  to  vol.  11  of  the  edi- 
tion of  Chapman's  works  edited  by  R.  H.  Shepherd.  Chatto  and 
Windus.  A  brilliant  and  stimulating  study  of  Chapman  as  a  poet 
and  dramatist. 

1881.  Ueber  George  Chapman's  Homer  Uebersetzung. 
H.  M.  Regel,  HaUe. 

1887.  George  Chapman's  Leben  und  Werke.  J.  A.  Scharf, 
Wien. 

1887.  The  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  vol.  x. 
Article  on  George  Chapman  by  A.  H.  Bullen. 

1891.  A  Biographical  Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama. 
F.  G.  Fleay.  Vol.  i,  pp.  50-66.  Vol.  11,  pp.  232,  238-9,  241, 
260  and  275. 

1892.  Der  Blankvers  in  den  Dramen  George  Chap- 
mans.  Emil  Elste,  Halle.  A  minute  examination  of  the  metrical 
structure  of  Chapman's  dramas  upon  the  basis  of  Schipper's  En- 
glische  Metrik.  It  does  not  present  any  new  facts  to  the  student  of 
Elizabethan  drama,  and  like  most  German  metrical  studies  errs  on 
the  side  of  a  mechanical  regularity. 


300  Bibliograpl^^ 

1897.  Qdellen-studien  zu  den  Dramen  George  Chap- 
man's, Philip  Massinger's  und  John  Ford's.  Emil  Koeppel. 
(0ue//en  und  Forschungen  :  Heft  82.  )  A  scholarly  monograph  on 
the  sources  of  Chapman's  dramas  ;  it  should,  however,  be  supple- 
mented by  the  later  work  of  Stiefel  {yide  infra)  and  Boas  (  Bussy 
D'  ^mbois  and  The  Revenge  of  Bussy,  Belles  Lettres  Series,  1905). 

1899.  A  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature  to 
THE  Death  of  Queen  Anne.  A.  W.  Ward.  New  and  Revised 
edition.    Vol.  11,  pp.  408-450. 

1900.  George  Chapman  und  das  Italienische  Drama. 
A.  L.  Stiefel.  Shakespeare  Jahrbuch,  Band  xxxv.  A  study  of  the 
source  of  Chapman's  May-Day,  i.  e.,  A.  Piccolomini's  ./^/«ian(/ro. 

1 90 1.  Letters  and  Documents  by  George  Chapman, 
Ben  Jonson,  etc.  Athenaeum,  nos.  3830-3833.  These  docu- 
ments are  selections  from  a  MS.  copy-book  discovered  by  Mr. 
Bertram  Dobell.  Six  of  the  letters  have  also  been  reprinted  in 
Professor  Schelling's  Easttuard  Hoe  and  The  Alchemist,  Belles 
Lettres  Series,  1903. 

I9OI.  George  Chapman's  Tragodie  'Caesar  und  Pom- 
PEY  '    UND  ihre  Quellen.     A.  Kern,  Halle, 

1903.  Eastward  Hoe  and  The  Alchemist.  Edited  by  F.  E. 
Schelling.     Belles-Lettres  Series,  Section  III. 

1903.  Shakespeare  and  the  Rival  Poet.  Arthur  Acheson. 
An  attempt  to  identify  Chapman  with  the  rival  poet  of  Shake- 
speare's sonnets,  accompanied  by  a  reprint  of  The  Shadoiu  of  Night, 
O'vid^s  Banquet  of  Sense,  A  Coronet  for  his  Mistress  Philosophy, 
The  Amorous  Zodiac,  To  M.  Harriots,  and  The  Tears  of  Peace. 

1903.    George  Chapman.     A.  Lohff,  Berlin. 

1903.  George  Chapman's  Ilias-ubersetzung.  A.  LohfF, 
Berlin.    An  extension  of  the  foregoing  work. 

1904.  Chapman's  '  All  Fools  '  mit  Berucksichtigung  seiner 
QuELLEN.  M.  Stier,  Halle.  In  the  main  a  close  comparison  of 
All  Fools  and  the  Heautontimorumenos.  Stier  was  ignorant  oi  the 
relation  of  All  Fools  to  the  Adelphi. 

1905.  Bussy  D'Ambois  and  The  Revenge  of  Bussy  D'Am- 
Bois.  Edited  by  F.  S.  Boas.  Belles  Lettres  Series,  Section  III. 
A  scholarly  edition  of  these  plays  based  upon  the  original  texts.  It 
gives  us  for  the  first  time  a  reliable  text  of  Bussy.  The  introduc- 
tion and  notes  are  most  valuable  to  the  student  of  Chapman. 


dDiloisjiart 


abodement,  omen.  A.  F.  iv, 
i,  378. 

abusde,     wronged,     deceived. 

G.   U.  V,  i,  5. 
ale-knights,  pot-companions, 

tavern-haunters.  G.  U.  in,  ii, 

354- 
ammell,  enamel.    G.    U.  i,  i, 

199. 
anatomizde,  dissected.  G.  U. 

IV,  i,  28. 
antike,   grotesque.    G.   U.   11, 

i,  294. 
ape,    mimic,   imitator.    G.  U. 

IV,  iii,  21. 
applausive,  applauded.  A.  F. 

",  ',  337- 

apprehension,  ability  to  re- 
ceive.   A.  F.  II,  i,  32. 

approv'd,  proved,  made  good. 
G.  U.  V,  ii,  8. 

aspir'd,  attained.  A.  F.  i,  i, 
6. 

bable,  fool.  G.  U.  m,  ii,  247. 

babies,  baubles,  trifles.  G.  U. 
II,  i,  261. 

banquet,  a  course  of  sweet- 
meats, fruit,  and  wine  served 
as  dessert.    G.  U.  11,  i,  309. 

barly-breake,  an  old  country 

game,  originally  played  by  six 


persons,  three  of  each  sex, 
something  like  "  Prisoners' 
Bars."    A.  F.  i,  ii,  67. 

basted,  marked.  A.  F.  in,  i, 
342. 

beisance,  obeisance,  a  court- 
esy.   G.  U.  I,  ii,  41. 

beldams,  old  women  {without 
the  usual  derogatory  sense). 
G.   U.  IV,  iv,  30. 

bench  -  whistlers,      idlers, 

worthless  fellows.     A.  F.  11, 

i,  i77-_ 

bestowing,  settlement  in  mar- 
riage.   G.  U.  Ill,  ii,  359. 

bewraies,  divulges,  reveals. 
G.  U.  I,  i,  119. 

blaze,  proclaim.  A.  F.  i,  i, 
63. 

blowse,  a  beggar  wench.   A. 

F.  IV,  i,  97. 

bone   robes,   pretty  wenches. 

G.  U.  Ill,  ii,  197. 
boord,  accost.  G.  U.  I,  ii,  176. 
brache,  bitch.  G.  U.  1,  i,  159. 
brake,  trap.  G.  U.  m,  ii,  392. 
briske,  spruce,  smart.     A.  F. 

Ill,  i,  301. 

Broome-man,  a  street-sweep- 
er.   G.  U.  II,  i,  135. 

buckram,  literally  precise, 
formal  {here  a  general  term  of 


302 


6lo00ar^ 


abuse,  perhaps  "  stuck-up  "). 
G.  U.  I,  i,  ii8. 
bug,  bogy,  hobgoblin.      G.  U. 
II,  i,  165. 

capriches,  caprices.  G.  U. 
V,  i,  17.  {^Chapman's  use 
of  the  ivord  here  precedes  by 
about  fifty  years  the  first  ex- 
ample quoted  in  the  N.  E.  D.  ) 

carouze  {•".),  drink  a  bumper. 
A.  F.  V,  ii,  34. 

carowse  (i.),  a  bumper.  A.  F. 

"j  ".  53- 
carpet,    a  cover    for    a  table, 
bed,   or  chair.      G.    U.  11,  i, 

75- 
carquanet,  a  golden  and 
jewelled  ornament  for  the  neck 
or  head.  G.  U.  iv,  iv,  22. 
cast  (j.),  a  couple.  G.  U.  i, 
i,  65. 

{•V.)  plan,  devise.     G.    U. 
I,  i,  279. 

mustered  out.     A.  F.  v,  ii, 

363- 
censure,   judgment.     A.    F. 

Prologus,  26. 
chared,  driven  away.      G.   U. 

I,   ii,    115.      {^Possibly  a  text 

corruption.      See  note  ad.  loc.) 
close  (s.),  enclosed  field.  A.  F. 

I,  ii,  130. 

(a.)  secret.     A.    F.  iii,   i, 

400-401 ;     tight.      G.    U.   I, 

ii,  166. 
closely,  privately.    A.  F.  i,  i, 

45- 


clownerie,  boorishness.  A.  F. 

II,  i,  85. 
cockatrice,  basilisk.     A.  F. 

in,  i,  363. 
cockrill-drone,    a  term   of 

abuse,    coined  from    "  cocke- 
rel,"  a  gay  young  man,  and 
"  drone,"    an  idler.      A.  F. 
IV,  i,  282. 
COgge,  cheat,  deceive.     G.  U. 

III,  ii,  75. 
COllatterally,  indirectly. 

G.   U.  Ill,  ii,  448. 

come  you  seaven,  dice- 
player,  gambler.  A.  F.  11,  i, 
42. 

commission,  legal  warrant. 
G.   U.  I,  i,  6. 

complement,  compliment, 
formal  politeness.  A.  F.  u,  i, 
128. 

conceipt,  opinion.    G.   U.  iv, 

i'i.  39- 
conceive,    understand.  G.   U. 

I,  i,  182. 
conge,      bow     of    salutation. 

A.  F.  II,  i,  156. 
consort,  company  of  musicians. 

G.   U.  II,  i,  191. 
consumption,       destruction. 

A.  F.  I,  i,  286. 
content,  satisfaction,  pleasure. 

G.   U.  V,  iv,  105. 
COntestes,    affirms    with     an 

oath.    A.  F.  II,  i,  61. 
COpesmates,  adversaries. 

A.  F.  II,  i,  229. 

partner.    A.  F.  iv,  i,  248. 


<!5lofifflfar^ 


303 


COyn'd,  invented.      A.  F.  iii, 

i,  266. 
cringle  crangle,       twisted, 

curved.     G.   U.  i,  i,  202. 
crowned,  brimming.      A.  F. 

V,  ii,  34- 
cullion,    low    rascal.      A.    F. 

II,  i,   145. 
CUnni-holes,  cony,  or  rabbit, 

holes.     G.   U.  IV,  iv,  31. 
curious,     fastidious.       A.   F. 

Epilogue,  5. 

dawish,  pertaining  to  a  daw, 

foolish.    A.  F.  Ill,  i.  395. 
debilitie,    inability.       G.     U. 

I,  i,  274- 

decorum,  congruity,  harmony, 
G.   U.  II,  i,  185. 

defesances,  "a  defeazance  is 
a  collateral  deed  made  at  the 
same  time  with  a  feoffment 
.  .  .  containing  certain  con- 
ditions, upon  the  performance 
of  which  the  estate  then  cre- 
ated may  be  defeated  or  totally 
undone  ' '  (  Blackstone) .    A.  F. 

IV,  i,  351. 
demilance,    light    horseman, 

cavalier.     G.   U.  iv,  ii,  80. 
determine,  cease.     A.  F.  v, 

"..359- 
device,  contrivance,   ingenious 

writing.     G.   U.  iii,  ii,  464. 
devise,  consider.     G.   U.  i,  ii, 

156. 
disparagement,  marriage  to 

one  of  inferior  rank,  the  dis- 


grace involved  in  such  a  mar- 
riage.   A.  F   I,  i,  266. 
dispatch,  hasten  away.    G.  U. 

.1.  i,  59- 

dissolved,  freed.  G.  U.  v, 
iii,  74. 

distempers,  disorderly  habits. 
A.  F.  V,  i,  72. 

divided,  incomplete.  A.  F.  i, 
i,  10. 

doomes,  judgments.  A.  F. 
Prologus,  25. 

dormer,  sleeping-room.  A.  F. 
IV,  i,  345- 

due  gard,  Dieugarde,  a  salu- 
tation   or   ejaculation.    A.    F. 


effected,    performed.      A.    F. 

IV,  i,  181. 
eloigne,  remove.  A.  F.  iv,  i, 

339- 
engag'd,    bound   as    security. 
A.  F.  V,  i,  27. 

won    over.      G.    U.    i,    i, 

97- 
errant,    arrant.     A.    F.   II,  i, 

141. 
escapes,  pranks,  peccadilloes. 

G.  U.  I,  i,  109. 
everted,   overthrown.     A.  F. 

IV,  i,  107. 
excitations,         incitements. 

G.   U.  V,  ii,  46. 
exclaimes,  reproaches.  G.  U. 

V,  iv,  34- 
exorbitant,  overlarge.    A.  F. 

Ill,  i,  425. 


304 


^lo0fi;ar^ 


expiate,  cleanse,  purify.  G.  U. 

V,  iv,  276. 
exploded,  hissed  off  the  stage. 

A.  F.  Prologus,   16. 

fact,  crime.     G.  U.  v,  ii,  52. 
factor,  go-between.    G.  U.  iv, 

iv,  76. 
fircke,  drive  off.    A.  F.  iii,  i, 

291. 
flundering,  floundering.  G.  U. 

I,  i,    198. 
fore-melting,        completely 

melting.     G.   U.  iv,  ii,  160. 
frivall,  frivolous.    A.  F.  II,  i, 

68. 
furnisht,  used  reflexi'vely  as  in 

Ward'' s  Simple  Cobler,  see  N. 

E.  D.    A.  F.  II,  i,   164. 
furniture,       apparel,      outfit. 

G.  U.  I,  i,  223. 

gag-tooth'd,  tusked.  G.  U. 
1,  i,  201. 

gird,  mock,  make  a  jest  of. 
G.  U.  n,  i,  159. 

glases,  covers  with  a  glaze. 
A.  F.  II,  i,  80. 

groome,  fellow  (/«  a  con- 
temptuous sense').  A.  F.  i,  i, 
160. 

ground,    background.    A.  F. 

h  i,  49- 
gull  (i.),  a  dupe.    A.  F.  11,  i, 
360. 

a  trick.    A.  F.  iv,  i,  398. 

(•v.)    to    cheat,    to    trick. 
A.  F.  II,  i,  368. 


hammer,  the  yellow-hammer 
{used  as  a  term  for  a  fool,  like 
''■woodcock'").  G.  U.  I,  i, 
164. 

harbenger,  harbinger,  mes- 
senger sent  in  advance  to  se- 
cure lodgings.  A.  F.  in,  i, 
348. 

heffer  {used  here  as  a  general 
term  of  contempt).  A.  F.  i,  ii, 
57- 

honor,  abow.    A.  F.  11,  i,  157. 

hope,  expect,  suspect.     G.   U. 

II,  i,  175. 

huddles,  nonsense.    G.  U.  in, 

ii,  218. 
humorous,  capricious.    A.  F. 

h  '\,  33- 

ill-humoured,  moody. 

A.  F.  Ill,  i,  192. 

husband,  A.  F.  u,  i,  398. 

See  Note,  p.  126. 
huswriferie,     behavior   {in     a 
derogatory  sense).    G.  t/.  v,  i, 
115. 

imbrierd,  tangled  in  the  briars. 

A.  F.  IV,  i,  411. 
impeach,   hindrance.     A.    F. 

III,  i,  247. 

impiety,  unfilial    act.    A.  F. 

IV,  i,  125. 

imploy,  include.  A.  F.  11,  i, 
90. 

imprest,  printed.  A.  F.  Dedi- 
cation, p.  140,  1.  9. 

inditer,  author.  G.  U.  iii,  ii, 
544- 


(f5lofi(fitar^ 


305 


inducement,    induction,     in- 
troduction.   G.   U.  I,  i,   184. 
informes,  gives  form  to.  A.  F. 

I,  i,  104. 

infringe,  cancel,  break.   G.  U. 

IV,  iv,   105. 

ingagde,     engaged,    compro- 
mised.    G.  U.  Ill,  ii.  213. 
ingle,  companion,  fool.    G.  U. 

V,  i,  167. 

intend,      apprehend,      judge. 

A.  F.  I,  i,  249. 
invade,  intrude  upon.     G.   U. 

V,  iii,  48. 
irrenitable,  irresistible.  A.  F. 

V,  ii,  345- 

kind,  affectionate.  G.  U.  i,  i, 
106. 

proper,  natural.    A.  F.  in, 
i,  482. 

legerdeheele,       lightheeled 

(/'.  e.  wanton)  tricks.     A.  F. 
m,  i,  158. 
let  (j.),  hindrance.    G.  U.  11,  i, 
90;   {-v.)   to  hinder.    G    U. 

II,  i,  89. 

lyte,  little,  valueless.  A.  F.  11, 
i,  385. 

managed,  a  technical  term 
for  putting  a  horse  through 
his  paces.     G.  U.  i,  i,  208. 

mankinde,  fierce.  A.  F.  iv, 
i,  236. 

maynd,  maimed.  A.  F.  i,  i, 
385- 


mazer,  head.    A.  F.  in,  I, 

308. 
minion,  a  favorite.  G.  U.  i,  i, 

121. 
miserable,  miserly.  G.  U.  i, 

i,  127. 
Momus,  the  god  of  raillery,  a 

scoffer.  G.   U.  11,  i,  263. 
moove,  apply  to.  A.  F.  iv,  i, 

125. 
motions,  demands.    G.   U.  v, 

ii,  20. 
mumming,     disguising,    espe- 
cially by  a  mask.  G.  U.  11,  i, 

204. 
muse,  am  astonished.     G.    U. 

Ill,  ii,  336. 

natural,  legitimate.  A.  F.  n, 
i,  410. 

ne,  nay.  A.  F.  i,  i,  312. 

nicenesse,  festidiousness. 
G.   U.  Ill,  ii,  6i. 

nicetie,  coyness.  G.  U.  n, 
i,  276. 

noyse,  a  company  of  musi- 
cians. A.  F.  v,  ii,  39. 

obsequies,  rites.  A.  F.  i,  ii, 

19- 

ought,  owed.  A.  F.  I,  ii,  77. 

pageant,  to  carry  about  as  a 
show.  G.   U.  I,  i,  256. 

pantable,  slipper.  A.  F.  v, 
ii,  236. 

parle,  speech.  A.  F.  1,  i, 
117. 


3o6 


(5lo0fl(ar^ 


picked,   dandified.    A.    F.    v, 

ii,  7. 
pile,    the    head   of  an   arrow. 

G.  U.  IV,  i,  82. 
playne,    frank.    A.  F.    n,    i, 

415- 
point,  a  tagged  lace  for  joining 
doublet  and  hose.      A.  F.  v, 

ii.  9- 

politique,  worldly  wise,  schem- 
ing.   A.  F.  I,  i,  401. 

port,  state,  style  of  living. 
G.  U.  V,  iv,  258. 

pottle,  a  two-quart  measure, 
a     tankard.      A.    F.    v,    ii, 

95-. 
president,  precedent,  pattern. 

A.  F.  I,  i,  336. 

prevented,  anticipated.    G.  U. 

y,  i,  5- 
price,   worth,    value.      G.   U. 

IV,  ii,  172. 

procures,  causes.    G.  U.  iv, 

iv,  81. 
projecting,  devising.     G.  U. 

1,  i,  215. 
propernesse,  beauty.   A.  F. 

V,  ii,  347- 
properties,       characteristics. 

G.   U.  I,  ii,  172. 
purlue,  border   {^here,  perhaps, 

extent).     G.   U.  11,  i,  289. 
puUd,  plucked.    G.   U.  iii,  ii, 

244. 
Push,  pish,  pshaw.    G.  U.  11, 

i,  263. 
put  up,  submit  to.    A.  F.  i,  i, 

211. 


qualliiied,  {y-),  mitigated. 
A.  F.  I,  i,  395. 

(a.)  accomplished.     A.  F. 

i,.i.  355- 

queint,  dainty,  fastidious. 
G.   U.  II,  i,  275. 

ingenious.      G.    U.  iii,    ii, 
24. 

quintessence,  a  highly  re- 
fined essence,  something  un- 
substantial.   A.  F.  I,  i,  44. 

quite,  to  requite.  G.  U.  v 
iv,  145. 

receypt,  abiding-place.    A.  F. 

Ill,  i,  48. 
recognizance,   legal  obliga 

tion  to  pay  a  debt.    A.  F.  v 

i,  31. 
recure  (i.),  a  cure.    G.  U.  v 

iv,  138. 

(t.)  to    cure.     G.    U.  iv 

iii,  41. 
redeeme,     compound      for 

A.  F  V,  ii,  348. 
reflected,  turned  aside.    A.  F. 

I,  i,  33'- 
reflecting,    turning.     A.  F, 

I,  i,  105- 
relish,  savor  of   A.  F.  iv,  i,  8 
replications,  legal  documents 

containing  the  plaintiff's  reply 

to  the  defendant's  first  answer 

A.  F.  II,  i,  329. 
resembled,  made  like  unto, 

G.    U.  v,  iv,  20. 
resolve,     loose,     free     from 

G.   U.  IV,  i,  44. 


<Slo00ar^ 


307 


dissolve.    A.  F.  11,  1,17. 

inform,  answer.    G.  U.  i, 
i,  112. 
respect,   courteous,   behavior. 
A.  F.  II,  i,  85. 

reputation.     G.    U.    i,    i, 
102. 

respective,  respectful.  A.  F. 

I,  i,  36. 
rivalitie,  rivalry.    G.  U.  I,  i, 

93- 
round,  a  dance.     G.  U.  11,  i, 

279. 
rude,  crude,  unfinished.    A.  F. 

I,  ii,  123. 
rung  out,    celebrated  by    the 

ringing  of  bells.    G.  U.  iv,  ii, 

94- 
Rushman,    one    who    strews 
rushes  on  the  floor.    G.U.ni, 
h  134- 

Satyrism,  satire.     A.  F.  Pro- 

logus,  19. 
schoole,      rebuke.        A.      F. 

Ill,  i,  66. 
scute,  a  French  or  Italian  coin 

of  variable   value.     A.  F.    v, 

ii,  20. 
seasoned,  imbued.    A.  F.  IV, 

i,  7-     _ 
seely,  simple,  silly.    G.  U.  iii, 

ii,  145. 
shroad,  shrewd.    A.  F.  IV,  i, 

320. 
skundrell,  scoundrel  {/ike  the 

'■'■  runt"'  in  a  litter).     A.  F. 

V,  ii,   192. 


smocke-faces,        effeminate 

faces.    A.  F.  v,  i,  7. 
sollar,  a  garret.     A.  F.  iv,  i, 

345- 
SOlemne,  ceremonious.    G.  U. 

I,  i,  84. 

soothes,  flatters.  A.  F.  i,  i, 
207. 

sort  (i. ) ,  a  number,  a  set.  G. 
U.  IV,  iii,  62. 

(xi.)    happen,     fall    out. 
G.   U.  Ill,  ii,  447. 

SOrtfuUy,  suitably.  G.  U.  iii, 
ii,  1 1. 

Speede,  fare  well,  or  ill  {am- 
biguous use).     G.    U.   Ill,  ii, 

53°- 

Spleene,  one  of  the  emotions 
supposed  to  arise  from  that 
organ  of  the  body,  as  wrath. 
A.  F.  II,  i,  105. 

spred,  propagate.  A.  F.  v,  ii, 
372. 

staid,  staled.  A.  F.  iii,  i,  325. 

strange,  new,  unknown  be- 
fore.    G.   U.  I,  i,  105. 

state,  rank,  position.  G.  U. 
in,  ii,  92. 

chair     of     state,      throne. 
G.  U.  II,  i,  184. 

ceremony.       G.    U.  11,    i, 
194. 

stirre,  bustle,  confusion.  G.  U. 

II,  i,  166. 

streakes,    stretches.    G.     U. 

V,  i,  42. 
suspect,  suspicion.     A.  F.  i, 

i,  177- 


3o8 


^lo0sfar^ 


taking,  condition,  predica- 
ment.     A.  F.  V,  i,   17. 

tall,  bold.      A.  F.  Ill,  i,  359. 

taxations,  personal  satirical 
allusions.    A.  F.  Epilogue,  8. 

taxe,  to  censure,  blame.  A.  F. 
IV,  i,   3. 

theorbo,  a  musical  instrument 
like  a  lute,  but  with  two 
necks,  much  used  for  accom- 
paniments.   A.  F.  II,  i,  393. 

threaves,  handfuls.  G.  U. 
II,  i,  83. 

tickling,  funny,  amusing. 
G.   U.  II,  i,  313. 

touch,  taint,  impairment. 
G.   U.  IV,  ii,  7. 

toy,  a  fancy,  notion.  A.  F. 
HI,  i,  78. 

toyes,  trifles.     A.    F.    II,   i, 

383- 

traine,  allure.  A.  F.  v,  ii, 
225. 

unresisted,  irresistible.  A.  F. 
II,  i,  109. 


vice,  screw,  or  wheel.      G.  U. 

Ill,  ii,  13. 
vildely,    vilely.       G.    U.    v, 

iii,  57. 

warrant,  assure  against  harm. 

A.  F.  Ill,  i,  214. 
■wedlocke,  wife.     A.   F.   i, 

ii,  118. 
whittld,      intoxicated,      made 

drunk.      G.   U.  in,  ii,  263. 
will,   desire,   lust.      A.    F.  in, 

i,  246. 
wittoll,  a  submissive  cuckold. 

A.  F.  V,  ii,  134. 
WOodcocke,     a     bird    whose 

name    was   a  synonym    for    a 

fool.    A.  F.  V,  ii,  225. 
wrapt,    ravished,    transported. 

G.   U.  Ill,  ii,  367. 

yare,  alert,   ready.      G.   U.  v, 

i,  loi. 
yeelde,   permit.     G.    U.   iv, 

i,  32. 


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